What did it mean? That he should go after the revelation she had made
to him--she understood that; but now with his honor at stake it was
different. Into her mind there flashed an unanswerable suspicion. Was
there some reason why he had so eagerly acceded to her request; that
even now, when she asked him to remain, he still stood mute at her
entreaties?
"Whether you go or stay, Jim, I do not expect ever to see you alone
again, and I'm glad of this chance to bid you good-bye--forever. I can
never, never believe that you are--Jim, if your hands are clean, if you
haven't robbed the soldiers' widows and orphans, you may kiss me
good-bye."
Into his eyes came the desire of his love as she had seen it in the
early morning in the Fairies' Corner. This time she did not move; but
Jim only bent low over the out-stretched arms as he answered, "I must
go," and went away from her.
The circle of his boyhood was complete. Again he went along the same
lane that he had travelled ten years before; again the desolation
brought by his departure from his home, his country, hurt and bruised
his spirit. Instead of the dawn, it was midnight, with clouds sweeping
sinisterly over the light of the heavens, and instead of a boy's
optimism he carried a man's disillusions.
From the park the light of the tent fires sent out flames that illumined
the roadway, the swaying and rustling of the heavy trees made whispering
sounds. Once at a turning he heard a boy's voice in the camp ringing out
high above the moaning of the trees:
"Oh, Tommy, Tommy Atkins, you're a good 'un, 'eart and 'and,
You're a credit to your country and to all your native land."
He clutched his arms about his head to deaden the sound and hurried on
out into the roadway, stumbling and half-falling over the gnarled roots
of the ancient trees.
*EXILE*
*CHAPTER XIII*
Like a Tanagra figurine, Nat-u-ritch stood silhouetted against the
golden light of the afternoon. She was small and slender, and her
pointed face, in spite of the high cheek-bones, was delicately modelled.
The eyes were long, but fuller than the usual beady eyes of the Indian
woman. They seemed far too big in proportion to the tiny person whose
body was swayed by the stifling breezes that swept over the plains,
raising a suffocating cloud or alkali dust. The heavy, embroidered,
one-piece gown clung to and slapped against the slight form, wrapping it
in lines of beauty. Long, twisted ropes of blue-black hair hung dank
and straight on both sides of her face and reached to her knees.
As the wind blew her gown one could see the copper-colored legs, and
through the scant sleeves could catch a glimpse of the immature
red-bronze arms of the young girl. In her hair a turquoise strand
repeated the touch of blue that was woven and interwoven in the beading
of her gown. She was standing near the trail that led to Maverick. To
the left and to the right the plains stretched into an eternity of
space. Nat-u-ritch shaded her eyes with straight, stiffened fingers, and
from under the set hands gazed over the country. Towards the west a
circular cloud, repeated at intervals, told her that horsemen were
making their way to the cow town. From behind a wickyup close to her
emerged an Indian chief--heavy, tall, with the sublime dignity of the
red man, unimpaired even by the halting, swaying walk that told of his
surrender to the white man's fire-water.
Quietly Nat-u-ritch watched her father, Tabywana, mount his pinto pony,
his flapping scarlet chaps gleaming against the white body of the
animal. He looked neither to the right nor left, nor behind him, as
Nat-u-ritch followed with her eyes his disappearing form. It was
twenty-six miles into Maverick, and she knew she must follow the trail
that led there, but she made no movement yet towards departure.
Immovable, she stood and watched from under rigid hands an alkali
whirlwind swallow up the horse and his rider.
Her brain was busy with the problem that lay before her. For two days
Cash Hawkins, the bad man of the adjoining barren land, had been with
her father; for two nights Tabywana had drunk from the bottle that the
white man had brought to him. Not once for forty-eight hours had her
father called her to him, not once had he likened her to the flower of
the tree of his love--the spirit-mother. She clinched her long, narrow
hands until they tore the fringes of her robe. The pleading, dumb look
of her dark eyes gave way to quick defiance; they seemed to become
chasms of gloom, unfathomable but determined; they showed the decision
and strength of which her resolve was capable.
Her father was to sell that day a large herd of cattle to Cash Hawkins.
Intuitively she knew what the two days' visit from Hawkins would mean
for them--despair when her father realized the trick the white man had
played on him, scarcity of food and many privations for her, then long
weeks of silent suffering for both.
Still she stood staring into the winding, desolate land, the stretching
heavens, the stretching plains--both flat, straight, unbroken, like two
skies. A world might be above one or under the other. Could this
intermediate space of ambient atmosphere lay claim to a life of fact and
reality?
But no such thoughts came to Nat-u-ritch as she watched the sandy face
of the country. The desert was her home. She had toddled across its
burning ground, following, as far as her baby strength would permit, her
father's pony. In the solitude of the waste land she had grown into
womanhood. She knew that to-day's dreariness could be broken until the
entire place echoed and re-echoed to the life of the men whose cattle
thundered at their heels. She had heard the desert answer to the
fanatical outburst of her tribes; had seen the white men drive her
people farther and farther back. For her and her people it had been
their refuge.
Suddenly she stretched out her delicate arms. Her figure grew erect.
From the distance came the distinct beat of horse's hoofs; it passed so
close within her vision that she could easily distinguish the features
of the rider. He was a stranger who had recently settled there, the
stranger whom she had first met at a bear-dance down at the agency.
She remembered that with the squaw's privilege of choosing her partner
she had selected him. She remembered his eyes. As she did so her own
turned and followed the man who, unlike the other horsemen of the
prairie, rose in his stirrups, and into her sphinx-like face came a look
of unutterable yearning. She watched the clouds of dust envelop him as
they had swallowed up her father, but this time she no longer stood
staring into the prairie. Swiftly she caught her pony, mounted him, and
let him gallop across a trail that led to a short cut to Maverick.
For a long time she lay flat on her animal, the hot sun sizzling down on
her clinging figure. She only drew her hair as a veil over her face,
while her wistful eyes watched the stranger across the plains as she
sped close on his track. She was glad that she was gaining ground, too
long had she lingered after her father's departure. She soon reached
the short cut, and a wise smile lighted up her face. She would be in
Maverick ahead of the man riding across the plains, and she wondered
whether she would see him at the Long Horn saloon. Then the smile died
away; she was not going to Maverick for that purpose. First she must
find and guard her father from Cash Hawkins's machinations; and then--
She tightened her hold on her pony. She gave a curious low cry to the
animal. His ears stood erect in answer as Nat-u-ritch flashed across
the sand track.
The man on the horse only vaguely saw Nat-u-ritch. His thoughts were
busy with the wearying business of the day's shipping of cattle. It was
Jim's second year at his ranch. When he left England he did not arrest
his journey until he reached the Far West--that Mecca of all Englishmen.
With the small sum of money that he had lifted from his bank, he had
purchased a ranch near Green River, and under the name of Carston had
begun forming the ties that now made up his life.
As he rode his face and body showed the beneficial results of his work
in the open. The cow-boy clothes seemed to have become almost part of
him. A certain neatness and precision in his mode of wearing the
picturesque garments of the plains alone differentiated him from the
hundreds of wearers of flapping leather chaps, flannel shirt, sombrero,
and loosely knotted kerchief.
Jim was wondering if his men had reached Maverick. He had sent Big Bill,
his foreman, on ahead of him with a message from him cautioning them to
beware of being drawn into a quarrel with Cash Hawkins, who he had
learned would be there. For days the "boys'" anger had been incited by
the discovery made by Jim and Big Bill that Cash Hawkins had been mixing
his cattle with theirs, for Hawkins's gain. This complaint of
"rustling" he found was not uncommon. Its penalty when proven was not a
pleasant one; the law was not consulted--punishment was meted out by the
cow-boys themselves. But for the present Jim preferred to avert a fight
with Hawkins. In the future he meant to take greater precautions to
protect his property.
As Jim rode he planned out many details of his new life's work. Thus
often for days all other thoughts would be blotted out. It was a big
game to fight and win in this barren land. It absorbed all his time and
vitality, and memories of dew-drenched England were burned out in this
dry, brilliant land where the tender half-light was unknown and where
often his English eyes yearned in vain, when he abandoned himself to the
past, for a touch of the soft gray of his own country in protest against
the hard brilliance of the sun and unending sand plains.
*CHAPTER XIV*
The Overland Limited swayed, creaked, and then with a grunting of many
chains drew to a sudden stop before the Long Horn saloon at Maverick.
From the window the passengers peered at the desolate cow town and
wondered how long they were to be delayed.
In their private car at the rear Diana, Henry Kerhill, and Diana's
cousin, Sir John Applegate, rose from their seats to study the
shipping-point for cattle, so novel in its environment, as indeed their
entire journey in America had been for the past months. The death of a
distant relative on Diana's side, who had left her an unexpected legacy,
had enabled her to retrieve to a great extent their cramped fortunes.
Lady Elizabeth had lived only a short time to enjoy the new improved
condition of affairs. She died in the year following Jim's departure
and vicarious disgrace. During the months previous to her death she had
grown grimmer and held herself more aloof. A stroke of paralysis one
morning made her bedridden and speechless; a merciful third stroke
caused her death within a month after her first attack. She never
spoke, and seemed to find no consolation save in Diana's presence. The
trip to America for a much-needed change was principally taken, however,
on account of Henry, whose nervous condition the medical attendants
declared most serious. The two years had made scarcely a perceptible
change in Diana; in Sir John none at all. But in Henry an oppressive
melancholy was rarely broken by the old flashes. Towards Diana he had
faithfully kept his word to Jim. A truce was accepted, and he never
ceased in his pathetic endeavors to try to make her happy. If neither
could honestly lay claim to a real joy of life, still they had peace and
dignity. As he stood near the window, the strong light showed how much
thinner and lined was his face. A touch of gray was distinctly visible
along his temples and was beginning perceptibly to streak his dark hair.
"My, but it's a corker!" Sir John gasped, as he put his head out of the
window and the blinding heat beat down on him. There was a smile from
Diana at Sir John's acquired Americanism. More British than the
Union-Jack itself, yet he was keen to gain knowledge of the new country,
and long conversations with the servile black Sam were enlarging his
vocabulary. All three watched with curiosity the ramshackle hostelry,
which they could plainly descry from one end of the car.
Diana turned to the men: "Do let us see the place. I've always longed to
have a real adventure at a way-place off the beaten tourist track. I'm
so tired of the sights that are arranged for one to be shocked at--at so
much a head."
They moved to the door, but the intense heat of the day for a moment
seemed to dampen their ardor. Then, at Henry's solicitations, Diana was
persuaded to wait until he found out from an official the possible
length of their stop.
Within the Long Horn saloon the afternoon's heat was apparently not felt
by its inmates. It was a roughly hewn, wooden, three-cornered room with
an oak beam stretching across it. Over this were thrown saddles and
blankets. A bar extended along one side of the room. On the walls were
grotesque and crude pictures done in chalk, while other spaces were
covered with cheap, highly colored illustrations cut from the papers
that reached Maverick. Tables for roulette and faro were placed at set
intervals. The floor was covered with a mixture of sand and sawdust,
while mounds of wood-dust were heaped near the bar, to be used by the
men as cuspidors. It was clean in a certain primitive fashion. The
glasses and bar fixtures were not unpleasant. The bartender, Nick, an
ex-prize-fighter, took a pride in his "emporium," as he called the
saloon, and lavished a loving though crude care on his possessions.
But the place was stained and soiled by the marks of the tragic remnants
of humanity that were housed within its walls. Around the
gambling-tables on this afternoon were groups of tattered specimens of
the various races. Cow-boys at certain tables gave a wholesome, virile
note to the place, but the drift-wood of a broken civilization was at
this hour in larger proportion than the ranchmen. Among the battered
denizens from the world beyond that had strayed into the saloon life was
a parson in a frayed frock-coat, who leaned in a neighborly way against
the blue shirt of a Chinaman, while a large negro with a face like a
black Botticelli angel grinned and gleamed his white teeth in sport with
a dago from Monterey. In a chair in a farther corner a tenderfoot lay in
a drunken sleep in his soiled evening clothes, which he had donned three
nights before to prove to the tormenting habitues of the place, who
since then had not allowed him to grow sober, that he was a gentleman.
A half-breed at a faro-table watched with tolerant amusement the antics
of those in his game to outwit him. The smell of the sawdust and the
human mass of unpleasantness grew stronger as the men played, changed
money, and Nick's corks flew and glasses clinked. Over the entire place
there hung a curious sense of respectability. Low-muttered oaths were
not uncommon, but Nick, sturdy and grim, with his watch-dogs--two large
six-shooters--lying on the shelf behind the bar, had a certain
straightness of purpose and a crude sense of right and wrong that won
respect from the heterogeneous mass of his followers.
The passing of the Limited would have caused a sufficient amount of
interest, but its stopping was a momentous occasion. The rude platform
outside was only a shipping-point for cattle, not a stopping-place for
through or passenger trains. There was a rush of some of the inmates
from the room, but to a number of them the game was at its vital point,
and Pete's lazy call of "jacks up" quickly chained the attention of the
more eager of the players.
But to Nick it meant new trade, and his battered and scarred face grew
into one ebullient smile as McSorley, the engineer, in his jumpers, with
begrimed face and hands, and Dan, the dapper Pullman conductor of the
Overland Limited, entered the saloon. McSorley was mopping his sweating
face.
"Say, Dan, who's the English swells in the private?" he asked, as he
looked back at the luxuriously fitted car.
"The Earl of Kerhill," Dan answered, as they veered towards the bar.
"Been out to the Yellowstone. The old man lets 'em have his private car.
Must be the real thing, eh?"
McSorley grunted his approval of the noble freight that he was carrying.
"Let's have a drink. What's yours, Dan?"
They reached the solicitous Nick.
"What 'll you have, gents?"
"A bottle of beer for me, Mac," Dan answered his companion's question.
Then, with English tips still a pleasant memory, he added, "But this is
on me."
Nick began opening a bottle of beer, and its foaming contents were soon
filling the glasses. As he served he inquired: "What's up gents?
'Tain't often the Overland Limited honors Maverick with a call!"
"Washout down the road," was McSorley's laconic reply, as the cool
liquid slid down his parched throat.
"Staying long?" Nick again asked, with visions of many strangers
visiting his bar.
Dan was surveying the place with an unsympathetic eye.
"Not longer than we can help, you bet," he answered. "Expecting orders
to move every minute."
But Nick was determined to be affable. "Pity; Maverick's worth seein'.
Who's in the parlor-car?"
"English people--Earl of Kerhill and party," Dan replied. Then he moved
down the bar with McSorley, both carrying their half-consumed beer.
A Southern cow-puncher, Pete, who had gone from ranch to ranch, finding
life too hard at each, leaned back on his stool until he rested against
one end of the bar. Through the windows he could see Shorty, one of Jim
Carston's men, coming along in animated conversation with several other
men of the Englishman's ranch.
"In my opinion the calm serenity of this here metropolis is about to be
tore wide open." A nudge from Punk, the Chinaman, made him go on with
the shuffling.
"How many, Parson?" Pete queried.
The cadaverous face of the Parson, with its highly colored nose, showing
the cause of his cloth's disgrace, turned to him. Frayed and seedy as
he was, he bore the imprint of a gentleman.
"Dearly beloved brethren, three."
Again Punk nudged the others, who were inclined to become too talkative.
They began indicating the number of cards desired with their fingers
while the conversation continued. Nick leaned over the bar and watched
Pete's hand.
"Cash Hawkins is in town!" Pete gave the news as though it were of
moment. They all knew what Cash's visits usually meant. An ominous
whistle followed. They all looked at Nick.
"Bad medicine is this same Mr. Hawkins, particular when he has his gun
wid him. Bedad, the kummunity could spare him a whole lot without
missing him," Nick volunteered.
"If they provoke unto wrath Brother Carston's outfit, my Christian
friend, there will be some useful citizens removed from our midst." The
Parson approved of Jim as a remnant of his earlier days. He recognized
in him one of his own class.
"And who the devil is Jim Carston?" Nick asked.
"Jim Carston? Never seen Jim? Oh yes, you must have, although Jim
don't frequent emporiums much. Why Jim's the English cow-boy. First he
had a place about a hundred miles from here. But he's bought Bull
Cowan's herd. Bull stuck him--stuck him good," Pete lazily informed the
crowd.
"Sure!" said Nick. "That's why Englishmen was invented. More power to
'em."
"Amen," hiccoughed the Parson, whose drinks by this time had been
numerous. "The prosperity of our beloved country would go plumb to
Gehenna if an all-wise Providence did not enable us to sell an
Englishman a mine or a ranch or two now and again."
"Say," Nick asked, seriously, "the Englishman ain't a-goin' up agin
Cash, is he now?"
"I call you, Parson," Pete calmly commanded, and then raked in the pot.
"When the smoke has cleared away I will venture an opinion as to who has
gone agin who," he resumed, as he pocketed the money. "Jim and his
outfit is here to ship some cattle to Chicago. I seed them all through
the window, and they ain't the kind to run away much."
There was a finality about Pete's words. He might be lazy and slow, but
he was anxious to open another pot, so he turned his back on Nick and
began shuffling the cards. As he did so, three of Jim's boys--Andy,
Shorty, and Grouchy--entered.
"Come on boys and have a drink," Shorty yelled.
Andy was a wiry, slender German with tender, romantic proclivities.
Grouchy, who seldom spoke, and then only in a husky, low growl, was a
massive fellow and looked like a Samoan native, but was in reality a
product of a Hebrew father and an Irish mother, while Shorty gained his
name from his low stature. Brave as a lion and honest, with a face from
which twinkled the smallest and merriest of blue eyes, he was the live
wire of any ranch.
"What's your nose-paint, gents?" Nick asked, as he greeted the
new-comers.
"A little of that redeye," Shorty replied, and soon he and his comrades
were clinking glasses. Several cow-punchers joined them, and the place
began to resound to lively disputes concerning the rates on cattle.
Dan and McSorley had finished their beer.
"How much?" Dan said. His look plainly showed his contempt for the
saloon. It was Nick's opportunity to pay back the insult that had been
quietly levelled at him by the Pullman conductor's attitude for the past
quarter of an hour.
"One dollar," was Nick's quick reply.
"One dollar!" Dan repeated. "For two glasses of beer?" He stepped back
and his voice rose in angry protest. It attracted the attention of the
others, who were only too eager for a row.
"Why," Dan continued, "it was all collar, anyway."
Nick leaned over the bar and quietly said, "I didn't charge nothin' for
the collar, gent, I throwed that in." There was a laugh from the
hangers-on at Nick's witticism. Nick flushed with approval and went on,
"Beer's our most expensive drink--comes all the way from Cheyenne."
Dan, furious at being done, as he knew he was, struck the bar with his
fist. "I won't pay it," he said.
There was a hush about the room. They didn't often see any one venture
to buck against Nick's authority.
"Oh yes, you'll pay it, gent." Nick's voice was lower and calmer than
Dan's. He had turned while Dan was speaking and was lovingly fingering
his six-shooter. He lifted it from the shelf and laid it carefully on
the bar, keeping his hand well over the trigger.
McSorley nervously edged to Dan. "Better pay it; better pay it," he
whispered.
Nick heard him. "Yes," he added, "better pay it. Saves funeral
expenses."
Dan knew enough of the country to know he was at Nick's mercy. He drew
a silver dollar from his pocket, and slapped it down on the bar.
"Well, I'll be ----!" Dan started for the door, followed by McSorley,
who thought his companion's rage ill-timed. He wished he were back in
his caboose. As they reached the door Nick's voice rang out in
stentorian tones.
"Wait a minute!" There was no gainsaying his command. Dan halted.
Nick, leaning far over the bar, held in each hand a watch-dog. "I don't
allow no tenderfoot to use bad language in my emporium. We do strictly
family trade and caters particular to ladies and children."
Dan and McSorley stood under the levelled guns. A shriek of mirth shook
the crowd. All had stopped playing and were watching the situation.
Finally, when there was no doubt as to the ridiculous position of the
train officials and the laugh had subsided, Nick dropped the guns, and
with a low bow turned from the bar, leaving them free to go. Dan and
McSorley quickly disappeared, Dan wildly expostulating while McSorley
vainly tried to calm him.
Nick went back to the players.
"Pete," he asked, "what has Cash got agin the Englishman?"
Pete, nothing loath to tell his yarn, especially as he had been winning
all the afternoon, drawled the information so that all at his table
could hear.
"Well, Jim's outfit has been heard to openly express the opinion that
Cash can't tell the difference between his cattle and Jim's."
"Rustling, eh?" the Parson interrupted.
Pete nodded.
"Serious business."
"Yes," said Pete. "Serious--quite--in these here parts. I see the
Englishman stand off a greaser down at the agency, and I've got a wad of
the long-green to lay even money that Cash can't twist the British
lion's tail a whole lot--not a whole lot. Any takers?"
Pete's eye was always keen to take up a "sure thing." The men with him
fell into a dispute concerning the respective merits of Jim versus Cash
Hawkins.
Meanwhile, seated at a table in the centre of the room were Shorty,
Andy, and Grouchy. They had heard nothing of Pete's and the Parson's
conversation. They were intent on a mild game and were awaiting Big
Bill, who was to meet them at the saloon. None of them saw Big Bill
coming towards them until they heard the slow, deep voice saying: "Boys,
Cash Hawkins is in town. The boss asks as a special favor to him that
you will avoid Cash and his gang and try to get out of town without a
collision."
Bill was a giant, over six feet tall, with a great, leonine head. He
had a strong face with piercing eyes. The mouth, "a large gash," as
Shorty described it, could at times give vent to loud guffaws of
laughter, and at others frighten one as it straightened into two lines
of grim determination. For two years he had been Jim's right-hand man,
and his devotion to the boss was the most beautiful side of Bill's life.
Forty years ago he had been born in a prairie saloon; the woman who bore
him died the night of his birth. He never knew who his father was, and
the upbringing he received was from a handful of miners who had adopted
him. As soon as he could toddle he began to try to do for himself.
Little errands he volunteered, and long before most boys even on a ranch
were anything but a nuisance, Bill was contributing gravely his share to
the big game of life. Save once, to Jim, he never spoke of the past.
He had drifted to Maverick twenty years ago, and except at intervals,
when he took a notion to better himself, he was usually at the cow town.
On one of these occasions when he was trailing the country he met Jim,
who was looking for a man to direct the practical side of his affairs.
Bill had never met a gentleman who treated him as Jim did, and in return
he gave his body's strength and all the scheming devotion of his brain
in his endeavor to benefit Jim's complicated affairs.
The three men looked up at Bill, who slid into a chair at their table
and started a new game with them.
"Say, Bill," Shorty began, "if Cash has his war-paint on there ain't no
use distributin' tracts on love one another."
"Und, Bill," Andy added, "und say for peace--dot's me, Andy. But say,
Bill, rustlin'--cattle stealing--you know. Particular when it's our
cattle, Cash has got a lot wit' a circle-star brand which original is a
big C for Carston. Say," he wildly went on, becoming more incoherent as
his temper rose, "und if we stand for it--you know--und say--we got to
git out of de business."
Grouchy leaned over to Bill and shook his head. "Say, I wouldn't work
for a man that would stand for it."
Still Bill said nothing, but listened gravely to the storm of protests
that the message from Jim to the boys had provoked.
"If the peace of a kummunity is worth a damn, you got to shoot him up a
whole lot. It's this delicate consideration for the finer feelings of
bad men which encourages 'em." Shorty, in his nervous, jerky manner,
fairly shook the table with his vibrations of rebellion.
Then Bill spoke. He was in sympathy with the boys, but he had his
orders from the boss--that was enough for him.
"Well, you know Jim. It ain't likely he'd ask you to show the
white-feather nor to stand no nonsense. Only"--here Bill paused and
said, impressively, "don't drink mor'n you can help, and avoid trouble
if possible. Them's the boss's orders."
As Bill was laying down the law for the men, the saloon began to fill
with curiosity-seekers from the train. The delay was evidently to be
longer than had at first been anticipated. Shorty was the first to see
the humor of some of the new-comers.
"Gee, get on to the effete East. Say," he called to the rest of them,
"get on to the tenderfeet."
They looked with childish glee at a quaint-looking couple who were
entering the saloon. Mrs. Doolittle was a prim, mild-mannered little
woman with a saintly smile. She evidently was travelling in the West
for the first time. Her husband, Hiram, was one of the prosperous New
England farmer class. Pleased with the entire condition of affairs, he
beamed on the cow-boys with great condescension.
Shorty, who scented some fun, whispered to Bill: "D.C. brand. Day
Coach, savvy?" As he watched the odd pair he made his way towards them.
They were quietly studying the place. The pictures of prize-fighters
and ballet-girls that lined the walls really shocked them, but it also
tickled their sense of the wickedness of their adventure. They reached
a roulette-table with the game in progress.
"Why, Hiram!" Mrs. Doolittle ejaculated, as she watched the players and
surveyed the saloon, "this is a gambling-hell."
Shorty, who with the others was closely watching the strange adventurers
and planning to tease them, mocked them in an aside--"Well, I want to
know."
But Hiram was too intent on Faith's observations to notice that they
were becoming the centre of interest in the place.
"Durned if it ain't," he affirmed, in a pleased tone. Then, ashamed of
his laxity, he added, "Want to git out?"
"Why, Hiram, what a question!" Faith Doolittle answered, severely, as
she drew away from her husband's out-stretched hand. "'Tain't often one
gets a chance to see life. I've read about Montey Carlo, and here it
is."
The boys were now all attention. Andy whispered, "Three card, eh;
Montey Carlo here, eh!" The laugh began to be noticed by Hiram.
"Dear me," Faith Doolittle gravely remarked, "and over there is
rouletty, I suppose."
Shorty came forward. He took off his large sombrero and bowed low to
the ground, in mock cavalier fashion as he good-humoredly said, "No
lady, that's where they're voting for the most popular lady in the
Sabbath-school." His sally was greeted with applause. Faith hardly
noticed it; she had taken Hiram by the arm and was trying to drag him to
the table.