Her final words were chilly and impersonal, but Ford left the table, smiling to himself.  At the door he met Dick, whom Buddy had mentioned with disaster to himself.  Dick saw the smile, and within the room he saw Miss Josephine sitting alone, her chin resting in her two palms and her eyes fixed upon vacancy.

“Hello,” Ford greeted somewhat inattentively.  “Do you want me for anything, Dick?”

“Can’t say I do,” drawled Dick, brushing past Ford in the doorway.

Ford hesitated long enough to give him a second glance—­an attentive enough glance this time—­and went his way; without the smile, however.

“Lordy me!” he said to himself, when his foot touched the bridge, but he did not add anything to the exclamation.  He was wondering when it was that he had begun to dislike Dick Thomas; a long while, it seemed to him, though he had never till just now quite realized it, beyond resenting his covert sneer that day in town.  He had once or twice since suspected Dick of a certain disappointment that he himself was not foreman of the Double Cross, and once he had asked Mason why he hadn’t given the place to Dick.

“Didn’t want to,” Mason had replied succinctly, and let it go at that.

If Dick cherished any animosity, however, he had not made it manifest in actual hostility.  On the contrary, he had shown a distinct inclination to be friendly; a friendliness which led the two to pair off frequently when they were riding, and to talk over past range experiences more or less intimately.  Looking back over the six weeks just behind him, Ford could not remember a single incident—­a sentence, even—­that had been unpleasant, unless he clung to his belief in Dick’s contempt, and that he had since set down to his own super-sensitiveness.  And yet—­

“He’s got bad eyes,” he concluded.  “That’s what it is; I never did like eyes the color of polished steel; nickel-plated eyes, I call ’em; all shine and no color.  Still, a man ain’t to blame for his eyes.”

Then Dick overtook him with Buddy trailing, red-eyed, at his heels, and Ford forgot, in the work to be done that day, all about his speculations.  He involved himself in a fruitless argument with Buddy, upon the subject of what a seven-year-old can stand in the way of riding, and yielded finally before the quiver of Buddy’s lips.  They were only going over on Long Ridge, anyway, and the day was fine, and Buddy had frequently ridden as far, according to Dick.  Indeed, it was Dick’s easy-natured, “Ah, let the kid go, why don’t you?” which gave Ford an excuse for reconsidering.

And Buddy repaid him after his usual fashion.  At the supper table he looked up, round-eyed, from his plate.

“Gee, but I’m hungry!” he sighed.  “I eat and eat, just like a horse eating hay, and I just can’t fill up the hole in me.”

“There, never mind, honey,” Mrs. Kate interposed hastily, fearing worse.  “Do you want more bread and butter?”