Her most persistent suitor was young Bob Wood who had
just reached his majority.
As she was walking one day in the Center Road, far from any dwelling,
she met Bob. He improved the opportunity by asking her to be his
wife.
"Why, Mr. Wood, I'm too young to marry."
"But I'm just old enough," said Bob, "and you suit me exactly."
"Mr. Wood, I'm going to tell you the truth. I'm not yet fifteen years
old. Father says I can't have a beau till I'm eighteen, and I'm sure
I don't want one."
Bob had learned much street slang during his visits to Cottonton, and
considered its acquisition a benefit and its use an accomplishment.
"You've said it. Now sneeze it, and dust your brain."
Mary regarded him with astonishment. "I don't understand such
language, Mr. Wood. What do you mean? I haven't a cold in my head."
Bob laughed insolently.
"No, but you've got a cold heart. What I meant by my French was that
you're bluffing. If you ain't eighteen, I'm a primary school boy."
"Then you don't believe me!" Mary's blue eyes opened to their fullest
extent.
Bob thought those blue eyes and light brown hair, golden in the
sunlight, those rosy cheeks, and pretty mouth made a most attractive
picture, and, in his rough way, he really loved her.
"I'm going home," said Mary, "and I shall tell my father you said I
lied to you."
"No, you don't," cried Bob, and he grasped her arm so tightly that
she winced.
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