Curley v. Cupid

Taranaki Daily News, 17 December 1926, Page 1 (Supplement)

Curley v. Cupid

S F Second Prize Short Story Competition t

By

MISS NELLIE REID,

Mangorei. g

“Whom do you consider the best look ing boy on the station, Kenny’?” “I don’t know,” replied Kenny, digging at the ground with a long stick. “Curly’s the nicest, though. He lets hie sit in his room and look at books and tells me stories about lions and tigers and Indians. Yon needn’t make eyes at him though, June. He’s not getting married till he's thirty.” “Really! How do you know?” asked June with an amused smile. “I heard him telling Mick that a wife is only’ a burden, and that no girl under the sun could make him think differently. Then he said about not marrying till he was 30, so that settles, you June.” His cousin gazed at him thoughtfully. “Curly must be quite an interesting individual,” she remarked. Suddenly her pretty red lips parted in a merry laugh as an idea entered her head. “What’s the joke?” queried Kenny, suspiciously. “I’ve just thought of a new game, chicken,” she laughed, as she flicked him with the stick she was carrying. “Come on, now. I’ll race you home.” ‘•Will you,” said Kenny grimly, and his short legs accepted the challenge. “Uncle Jack,” said June, as she took charge of the paper he was reading, “I want to ride.” “Go on, then,” he teased, “you can start right now if . you wish.” His niece pulled a face at him. “Yes! I want to ride, and I want Curly Masterman to teach me how.” Mr. Wyatt sat up in his chair. “Oil, ho; so that’s the way the laud lies, is it! AVhere have you met Curly?” “I haven't met him,” June explained, “but Kenny recommended him. Come on, now uncle,” she coaxed, “youre’s not very busy at this time of the season, and I do so want some one to play with, I'm lonclv.”

“To flirt with, you mean, you little demon. June you’re incorrigible,” her uncle exploded, his eyes twinkling. 'But look here. I don’t want any cf my boys lovesick, and, besides, Curly is the best boy on the station. I shouldn’t like you to fool him. Why don’t you try your charms on Mick; he hasn’t any real feelings to hurt.” “No!” she pouted. “I want Curly: please uncle.” “It’s bad for little girls to have all their own way,” he returned, but June knew she had won the day. The next morning Mr. Wyatt introduced his niece to the young shepherd, explained that he, Curly, was to teach her to ride, and then left her to do the rest herself. She was quite able to manage her own affairs. She gave the young man one of her winning smiles and said softly: “I hope you don't mind teaching me to ride?” “No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t mind in the least. If you will wait here a minute, Miss Wyatt, I will fetch the horses.” “Oh, please,” said the girl quickly, as he. made as if to go. “VVill you give me a horse than can go? I don’t want one that crawls.” '■Righto”’ lie replied, with a slight smile as he strode off towards the yards. ■ June watched him reflectively as he walked,. swinging along as though the station belonged to him. “Kenny is an excellent judge of human nature.' I wonder if he is as interesting as he looks. Oh! Wouldn’t it be fund if I could make him change his mind about marrying at 30. 1 wonder what uncle would say if he knew that I can already ride,” she mused. It, was true. She had learnt to ride while staying last summer with a girl friend, a sheep farmer’s daughter. Curly came hack leading two fine looking horses. One of them was chi and gentle as a lamb, but to one with

little experience of horses she looked quite young and sprightly, for she was well cared for. The young shepherd held her for June to mount. ‘'This is your noble steed, Alias Wyatt?’ he said politely’, with a twinkle in his grey eyes. “Shall I help you up? She is rather flighty.” “No thanks,” replied the girl, as she placed one foot in the stirrup and sprang ■ lightly’ into the saddle. “What a dari- | ing horse! What is her name?” “Gentle Annie,” he answered, as be I mounted and drew rein alongside the I girl’s horse. “And this is Araby. I called ■ him so because Arab horses are such good stuff.” “Oh, how beautifully you keep him! ’ exclaimed the girl, stroking his glossy, black coat. “Why, 'Gentle Annie’ is : quite dull beside him.” Considering the difference in the ages I of the two horses this was not io be wondered at, but Cufly said nothing. ( “What direction do you wish to take ?” I he inquired. “This track,” pointing with his hand, “leads to those hills in the distance, this leads to the river, and this, as you know, leads to the township.” “I think 1 prefer the hills,” announced the girl, after a minute’s reflection. “I like going up and up,” and, she added enthusiastically, “then reaching the top and gazing down at Hip. surrounding country with the wind blowing in one’s | face.” i “Yes, so do I,” he said with a smile, I as they swerved into the hill path. “But j I don’t think we had better attempt to reach the top to-day, The long ride would tire you.” June gazed at him scornfully. “You ' must think I’m made of soft stuff,” she said indignantly. ' “But you’re only a beginner,” he reminded her.

“Yes, of course,” she fibbed, “but I feel as though I was born in the saddle.” “Yes, you sit a horse well,” he said, looking her over critically. “Do you like my’ riding suit?” she queried, gazing perkily’ at him, with hethead on one side. “Vnelc says trousers suit me.” “He’s right,”, agreed Curly, “but dresses are prettier on girls.”. “I couldn’t wear one on horseback very well, could I?” she asked, her eyes dancing. “I don’t suppose so, but I believe you would look charming in he responded gallantly. “What a pretty’ compliment!” exclaimed tile girl with a gay 'laugh. “I say, why do they call you Curly ? Does your hair curl?” I “Yes, it does rather,” he assented with a grin. “That's why I always keep a hat on. But look here, can’t we talk about something else?” June laughed and turned the conversation on to her life, in the city. She was surprised to learn that he. had been born and bred in her home town. “Then how do you come to he here?” she asked. “Well,” he replied, “X have always preferred the country, even when I was quite small. Jly parents wished to make a lawyer of me. They had decided that Owen, my elder brother, should be a doctor, like my father, and that I should |be a lawyer. My younger brother's fate j was undecided, as far as I know. Well, j Owen was a brilliant success, but I was a failui e from the start. More of my’ I time was spent on my r uncle’s farm than J-at school, and at last my parents gave me up- as a bad job and sent me; hero ” Curly stopped suddenly’.- He was sinn prised that lie should have talked at such I length to a girl he had just met/ ; The shepherd -turned home before they had completed half the journey.

“It is too much for a beginner,” he protested when she declared her intel) j tion of riding on, “and, besides, v.c shouldn’t get back in time for dinner.” “Oh! I had forgotten dinner,” she exclaimed. “What a shame wc didn't bring lunch with us?” “I’m afraid your uncle wouldn’t quite agree to that, Miss Wyatt,” he said with an amused smile. “I must do something for my tucker, you know.” “Oh! Ho doesn't mind,” declared June, confidently, ‘'Where shall we go this I afternoon ?” “1 am working this afternoon,” he said; quietly. “Working!” echoed the girl in aston-1 ishment, jerking her horse to a stand-1 still. “But I want you to teaeh me- ■ to ride,” she said disappointedly. “I’m afraid I can’t. Duty first yon; know, Miss Wyatt,” Curly said with an ; air of finality. “I think you’re horrid,” she said path- • etically. “And I’m so lonely. I don’t be-: lieve you want to teach me,” she accused i him reproachfully. Curly’ glanced at her quizically and i laughed. “Never mind,” he consoled her. i “I’ll give you another lesson some other I afternoon if you’re good.” “You speak as though 1 were a child,” she pouted. “What other afternoon j C , Mr. Masterinan?” “I’ll let you know,” he promised. “ And | by the way, you may’ call me Curly, j You've nearly said it several times al- j ready.” “Thanks,” said June. “Well, you rascal, how did you get on?” asked Mr. Wyatt inquisitively as he eame in from work that evening. “Wait and see,” she retorted V“You look very’ pleased with yourself, anyway,” he smiled as he left her. At the same time that this conversation was taking place, Curly Masterman was washing before entering the cookhouse. As he came, spluttering out of a bucket of soapy’ water, a voice inquired slyly at his elbow, “Well, boy, how did you get on?” Curly’ grinned. “In future,” he said severely, “please address me as ‘Mr. Mastennan.’ ” “Righto, Lord Masterman. but what I want to know is, what sort of girl is the fair June?” Curly finished drying his face and flicked the questioner' over the head with the towel. “Don’t you think,” he inquired mildly, but with a hint of sternness underlying the quiet tone, “that you’re a trifle cheeky. In future I’ll trouble you to call Miss Wyatt by’ her proper name.” “Re-e-allyv” drawled Mick, undaunted, as he drew off more water and reached for the soap. “Remember that she is not your property y’et, my boy. Besides, don’t forget that you’re not getting married till vott’re thirty.”

Ciirlv flushed slightly. Then suddenly he seized Mick's tow head, plunged it into the bucket and stamped laughingly into the cookhouse. During the next few days the young shepherd was kept busy, then one day’ there came a lull in the work, and he j sent June word saying that he would | take her riding that afternoon. The news | eame to the girl as a Godsend. She had j ridden quite often lately, but s omehow j it was dull without Curly, although her | uncle had lent her a splendid little horse j in place of Gentle Annie. As she rode to meet her companion she let the horse! out and the two flew over the long pal-1 dock as if they were one. The shepherd, coining at a gentle trot from the opposite direction, drew rein, and slowly’ nodded his head as if confirming a belief. “Yes, miss,” he said to himself, “you’ve ridden before, I’ll wager. No one eould learn to ride like that on Gentle Annie, and you haven't had the roan long enough. I suspected as much on the first day.” June pulled up with a skilftfl little turn. Her eyes were shining find her lips smiled a welcome. “Good afternoon,” said he politely, raising his hat. “You seem to have profited somewhat from my tuition.” “Yes,” site answered, “you are an ex-1 cellent riding master. 1 think I shall take another track to-day’. I want to ride like the wind.” “Well, as lohg as you don’t break your neck I suppose I shall have to allow it.” he said, resignedly, as he led the way. “Oh, yes. I had nearly forgotten,” announced severely’. “Curly, why’ did you palm off old Gentle Annie <-n to me after I had asked sapccially for a good horse, too?” The cujprit smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t know the difference,” he explained, “and I didn’t want you to fall off or anything' else of the sort, so. I told a harmless little fib.” "You naughty boy,” she scolded playfully, “you should never tell untruths.” “No! You never tell them yourself, do' you?” he asked meaningly, his keen gaze j sweeping her face as a startled look I crept into her eyes. “Of course not,” she replied, eyeing! him doubtfully’. “Why?” “Miss Wyatt,” he said quietly, leaning slightly towards her. “You are an admirable little fibber, also’a very presentable flirt. lam flattered that you should ha\ e chosen me to practice on, but yon will find me quite hopeless. You see, I intend to marry’ when I am thirty, and no sooner. Besides, you arc.hardly the; sort of girl I want as a wife. We can i be pals though, can’t we ?” He reached , forth a band and gripped hers as it rest - j ed on the pommel; “Can't we?” he repeated, as she gazed at him speechless. Then a wave of colour j swept over her face as site lowered herj eyes t o the hand that-lay’ on hers. ! “Yes! Of course,” she murmured in distinctly', trying to draw her han-1 1 away. But his grip tightened. ‘‘Say, ‘I promise to 'be your frieiv.L’ ’ he eomniatidcd.

June snatched her hand away. “I shall not,” she cried indignantly'. “I think you're n mean beast. You're only trying to make me say it because—because ——” she stopped abruptly’. She knew that if she went on her speech would end in tears. Therefore, wheeling quickly, she flew back home again without another glance at the shepherd. When June recovered from her outburst she realised how foolish she had been, for by’ becoming so agitated she had shown him how disappointed she. was. “And now,” she thought bitterly, “he’ll be laughing up his sleeve and saying I'm in love with him, and I hate him.” but. even as she uttered these last words a doubt crept into her mind as to the truth of them. Was it possible that, in trying to make him lose his heart to her she herself had grown fond of him? The next morning at breakfast Uncle Jack said in a matter of fact tone: “I don’t suppose you’ll see Curly’ again, June. He is going to Siberia.” “Siberia!” she exclaimed. “Not the real Siberia,” he told her. “It is just a name the boys have given to a whare away up in the hills. They often camp there for long spells at a time and inspect the sheep thoroughly. I am thinking of making that boy my head shepherd when Daisley goes,” her uncle continued. “He is the best workeon the station, and the other boys rcsjtect as well as like him.” The girl had still another week to spend on the station, a week of unutterable boredom and misery. She wandered restlessly around the house or took long rides with Kenny. The day before her departure for the city, she turned to the boy, as they were ascending a rough path in the hills and asked suddenly: “Did you tell Curly Masterman anything about me, Kenny?” “I only’ told him you had had about l ten boys. You told me yourself, yon I know, and that you asked dad to let I him teach you to ride so that you could ! flirt with him,” announced Kenny, carei lossly.

“How did you know I asked uncle to let him teach me?” she asked, suspiciously. “Guessed,” he answered laconically, “so I warned Curly. I suppose he went to Siberia to get out of your way, but lie's mad like all the rest.” "Why?” “He came back this morning.” “He didn’t!” exclaimed the girl, re* newed hope in her eyes as she turned quickly to the boy again.

j “He did so.” “Then why’ didn't uncle tell us so?” Kenny shook his hand. “I don't know. ’Praps Curly told him not to. P’raps he thinks you might chase him again,” taking a keen delight in teasing her. Curly’ was his beloved friend, and he had no desire to see another take his, Kenny’s, place in the shepherd’s heart. June's face flushed, but, taking no notice of his unpleasant remarks, she leant towards him and said coaxingly: ‘ Why’ don’t you like me, Kenny. You used to once?” ‘ “I will if you promise not to flirt with I Curly,” he said, doggedly. | “I promise never to flirt with him i again,” she answered, fervently, and : meant it. | As she uttered the words they’ turned ; a corner and came face to face with the i man himself.

; On either side of the winding track ' they were taking were high, steep banks, i mid any person riding from the opposite direction was quite invisible till one was almost face to face with tl’.e ride)'. June coloured rosily as he raised his hat and wished her good morning. . "Hello!” exclaimed Kenny’ delightedly. “Mick told me you were home.” "That accounts for it,” declared Curly. “I didn't think you looked half surprised enough.” "Why did you come back?” demanded Kenny. , ‘ That is a question I cannot answer,” smiled the man. His eyes sought tha girl’s. “I am still wondering,” be added. Kenny’ turned slowly and jogged rapid-' I ly’ from view. 1 There was a moment’s silence. Then ’ Curly’ pulled his horse nearer to hers. “Did you wonder why’ I came back?” he asked. June sat with downcast cy’os, her Hagers toying nervously with the reins. "Yes, I did, a little,” she faltered. “Were you lonely’ without me?” ha persisted, but she turned her bead away ' and would not answer. “June,” he said earnestly, “I. was an ass. 1 take back all that piffle about — you know what I said. Well, I take it all back, and June. I’ve decided to marry before I am thirty.” She turned her face to him and stretched out a hand. “I congratulate you,” she said, with ■ a smile. “Might 1 ask whom you in- ! tend to marry’ ?” I Curly stared at her unconinrehcndingI iyI “Don’t you know?" he asked unbelictr I ingly-; • “How should I?” she queried, raising her eyebrows. He gazed at Iter steadily. "Whom were you promising not to flirt with as you came round the bend?” he asked. “Oh! Did von hear?” she asked, s’artled. “Yes,” said he, “and I know whom j you were referring to. Well, if yon I don't flirt with me will you—Will you —will you marry me. June?" j An imp of perverseness seemed to enter the girl. "I'm not old enough.' she ; said demurely, her ey es on the ground. i "Then." declared lie. "I can wait." “Pmt," said she, trio iiphanily. ' *•’■) said I was no! the sort cf girl you •’.’.•ould marry." (Contini-.MI on u::’-' 2, fo'-t of cai. am 7.1