“By God,” Jeffrey muttered in incredulous awe, staring at it, “it’s fate!” Then he whirled and leaped for Nancy.
She leaped too. It was not a frantic panic-stricken scuttle away from peril, but a purposeful and well-aimed dash for a selected sanctuary; and was so unexpected that its force nearly toppled the sanctuary, which was the brawny form of Dan Pavey, to the ground. He staggered and regained balance. Nancy hung to him and on him, her arms around his neck and told his ear:
“Don’t let him!”
Dan’s arms, around her, held her there. Jeffrey Thorpe, confronting him, demanded:
“Put her down! Turn her loose! I ask you because I can’t make you. You’re wounded.”
“Oh,” cried Nancy, “I forgot! Your arm!” She wriggled.
“My arm’s all right,” Dan rumbled. “Quit squirming. You can’t squirm out of your agreement, either. Don’t be a welcher. The deal was that if he threw a ringer you got kissed and you’re going to. Are you going to let him kiss you?”
“No.”
“Okay, then I’ll have to do it myself.”
He did so, standing there with her in his arms oblivious to the audience, full on her lips. Ten seconds later he said:
“That was intended to make an impression. Did it?”
“Yes,” said Nancy. She got her breath. “Put me down so I can look at your arm.”
Tecumseh Fox pitched a horseshoe.