"And gimme holt that can." "Am I not bailing satisfactorily ?" she demanded, indignantly.
"Yep.

You're doin' all right; but, but, you are--are--" "Just what I was before you knew who I was.

Now you go on rowing,--that's your share of the work; and I'll take care of mine." "Oh, you'll do!" he murmured ecstatically, bending afresh to the oars.
"And Jacob Welse is your old man?
I oughter 'a known it, sure!" When they reached the sand-spit, crowded with heterogeneous piles of merchandise and buzzing with men, she stopped long enough to shake hands with her ferryman.

And though such a proceeding on the part of his feminine patrons was certainly unusual, Del Bishop squared it easily with the fact that she was Jacob Welse's daughter.
"Remember, my last bit of grub is yours," he reassured her, still holding her hand.
"And your last shirt, too; don't forget." "Well, you're a--a--a crackerjack!" he exploded with a final squeeze.
"Sure!" Her short skirt did not block the free movement of her limbs, and she discovered with pleasurable surprise that the quick tripping step of the city pavement had departed from her, and that she was swinging off in the long easy stride which is born of the trail and which comes only after much travail and endeavor.

More than one gold-rusher, shooting keen glances at her ankles and gray-gaitered calves, affirmed Del Bishop's judgment.