This one moment of triumph was worth all the long miserable winter with
its butterless bread and tobaccoless pipes. But he carefully hid his joy
when he spoke.
"Yes," he said nonchalantly. "I'm goin' ter Boston next week ter pick
one out. I cal'late on gettin' a purty good one."
"Oh, Phineas! But how--how you goin' ter run it?"
Phineas's chin came up.
"Run it!" he scoffed. "Well, I hain't had no trouble yet steerin' a
hoss, an' I cal'late I won't have any more steerin' a mess o' senseless
metal what hain't got no eyes ter be seein' things an' gittin' scared! I
don't worry none 'bout runnin' it."
"But, Phineas, it ain't all steerin'," ventured Diantha, timidly.
"There's lots of little handles and things ter turn, an' there's some
things you do with your feet. Colonel Smith did."
The name Smith to Phineas was like a match to gunpowder. He flamed
instantly into wrath.
"Well, I cal'late what Colonel Smith does, I can," he snapped.
"Besides"--airily--"mebbe I shan't git the feet kind, anyhow; I want the
best. There's as much as four or five kinds, Jim Blair says, an' I
cal'late ter try 'em all."
"Oh-h!" breathed Diantha, falling back in her chair with an ecstatic
sigh. "Oh, Phineas, won't it be grand!" And Phineas, seeing the joyous
light in her eyes, gazed straight down a vista of happiness that led to
wedding bells and bliss.
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