her heart stopping when—the announcer bellowed through his megaphone:
"Tom McNair coming out on Stampede. McNair on Stampede."
The throwing open of the gates of the saddling chute, the hazers scattering, the judges watchful, the horse leaping, sun-fishing, rearing and bucking; and then the ride made, the pistol shot, the hazers closing in. She could breathe again.
She had only one comfort. Inspect the grand-stand as she might, she did not see the Dowling girl.
In the evenings she had waited alone on the porch of the bungalow, but Tom had not appeared. And now he had been drinking, and maybe old Dowling would fire him. Then he would go away and she would never see him again.
She leaned over the counter.
"Where'd you see him, Sarah?"
"Going into the Martin House."
At five-thirty Mr. Dicer in the rear of the store glanced up from an order blank at the clock, and then rising took his straw hat from its hook. And at this signal the girls, already poised for flight, with a simultaneous movement dipped under their counters, brought forth their absurd small hats, jerked them on their heads and moved to the door. Mr. Dicer, following them, locked it behind them.
"Good night, Mr. Dicer."
"Good night."
Under pretense of an errand Clare crossed to the drug store and entered. But when they had gone out of sight she emerged again and made her way into the Martin House. Ed Clark, the clerk and general factotum, was cleaning his nails with a pen-knife behind the glass cigar counter which served as a desk.
"Hello, Ed. Is Tom McNair here?"
"He's got a room here. I can't say if he's in it."
"She was certain however that Tom was upstairs, and after a moment's thought she wrote him a note.
"I'll be at the corner by the Court House, Tom. And I'll wait there until you come if it takes all night. Clare."
