Miss Whitmore ran down to the blacksmith shop, waving an
official-looking paper in her hand.
“I've got it, J. G.!”
“Got what--smallpox?” J. G. did not even look up from the iron he was
welding.
“No, my license. I'm a really, truly doctor now, and you needn't laugh,
either. You said you'd give a dance if I passed, and I did. Happy Jack
brought it just now.”
“Brought the dance?” The Old Man gave the bellows a pull which sent a
shower of sparks toward the really, truly doctor.
“Brought the license,” she explained, patiently. “You can see for
yourself. They were awfully nice to me--they seemed to think a girl
doctor is some kind of joke out here. They didn't make it any easier,
though; they acted as if they didn't expect me to pass--but I did!”
The Old Man rubbed one smutty hand down his trousers leg and extended it
for the precious document. “Let me have a look at it,” he said, trying
to hide his pride in her.
“Well, but I'll hold it. Your hands are dirty.” Dr. Whitmore eyed the
hands disapprovingly.
The Old Man read it slowly through, growing prouder every line.
“You're all right, Dell--I'll be doggoned if you ain't. Don't you worry
about the dance--I'll see't yuh get it. You go tell the Countess to bake
up a lot of cake and truck, and I'll send some uh the boys around t'
tell the neighbors. Better have it Friday night, I guess--I'm goin t'
start the round-up out early next week. Doggone it! I've gone and burned
that weldin'. Go on and stop your botherin' me!”
In two minutes the Little Doctor was back, breathless.
“What about the music, J. G.? We want GOOD music.”
“Well, I'll tend t' that part. Say! You can rig up that room off the
dining room for your office--I s'pose you'll have to have one. You make
out a list of what dope you want--and be sure yuh get a-plenty. I look
for an unhealthy summer among the cow-punchers. If I ain't mistook in
the symptoms, Dunk's got palpitation uh the heart right now--an' got it
serious.”
The Old Man chuckled to himself and went back to his welding.
“Oh, Louise!” The Little Doctor hurried to where the Countess was
scrubbing the kitchen steps with soft soap and sand and considerable
energy. “J. G. says I may have a dance next Friday night, so we must
hurry and fix the house--only I don't see much fixing to be done;
everything is SO clean.”
“Oh, there ain't a room in the house fit fer comp'ny t' walk into,”
expostulated the Countess while she scrubbed. “I do like t' see a house
clean when folks is expected that only come t' be critical an' make
remarks behind yer back the minit they git away. If folks got anything
t' say I'd a good deal ruther they said it t' my face an' be done with
it. 'Yuh can know a man's face but yuh can't know his heart,' as the
sayin' is, an' it's the same way with women--anyway, it's the same way
with Mis' Beckman. You can know her face a mile off, but yuh never know
who she's goin' t' rake over the coals next. As the sayin' is: 'The
tongue of a woman, at last it biteth like a serpent an' it stingeth
like an addle,' an' I guess it's so. Anyway, Mis' Beckman's does. I do
b'lieve on my soul--what's the matter, Dell? What yuh laughin' at?”
The Little Doctor was past speech for the moment, and the Countess stood
up and looked curiously around her. It never occurred to her that she
might be the cause of that convulsive outburst.
“Oh--he--never mind--he's gone, now.”
“Who's gone?” persisted the Countess.
“What kinds of cake do you think we ought to have?” asked the Little
Doctor, diplomatically.
The Countess sank to her knees and dipped a handful of amber, jelly-like
soap from a tin butter can.
“Well, I don't know. I s'pose folks will look for something fancy,
seein' you're givin' the dance. Mis' Beckman sets herself up as a
shinin' example on cake, and she'll come just t' be critical an' find
fault, if she can. If I can't bake all around her the best day she ever
seen, I'll give up cookin' anything but spuds. She had the soggiest kind
uh jelly roll t' the su'prise on Mary last winter. I know it was hern,
fer I seen her bring it in, an' I went straight an' ondone it. I guess
it was kinda mean uh me, but I don't care--as the sayin' is: 'What's
sass fer the goose is good enough sass fer anybody'--an' she done the
same trick by me, at the su'prise at Adamses last fall. But she couldn't
find no kick about MY cake, an' hers--yuh c'd of knocked a cow down with
it left-handed! If that's the best she c'n do on cake I'd advise 'er to
keep the next batch t' home where they're used to it. They say't 'What's
one man's meat 's pizen t' the other feller,' and I guess it's so
enough. Maybe Mame an' the rest uh them Beckman kids can eat sech truck
without comin' down in a bunch with gastakutus, but I'd hate t' tackle
it myself.”
The Little Doctor gurgled. This was a malady which had not been
mentioned at the medical college.
“Where shall we set the tables, if we dance in the dining room?” she
asked, having heard enough of the Beckmans for the present.
“Why, we won't set any tables. Folks always have a lap supper at ranch
dances. At the su'prise on Mary--”
“What is a lap supper?”
“Well, my stars alive! Where under the shinin' sun was you brought up if
yuh never heard of a lap supper? A lap supper is where folks set around
the walls--or any place they can find--and take the plates on their laps
and yuh pass 'em stuff. The san'wiches--”
“You do make such beautiful bread!” interrupted the Little Doctor, very
sincerely.
“Well, I ain't had the best uh luck, lately, but I guess it does taste
good after that bread yuh had when I come. Soggy was no name for--”
“Patsy made that bread,” interposed Miss Whitmore, hastily. “He had bad
luck, and--”
“I guess he did!” sniffed the Countess, contemptuously. “As I told Mary
when I come--”
“I wonder how many cakes we'll need?” Miss Whitmore, you will observe,
had learned to interrupt when she had anything to say. It was the only
course to pursue with anyone from Denson coulee.
The Countess, having finished her scrubbing, rose jerkily and upset the
soap can, which rolled over and over down the steps, leaving a yellow
trail as it went.
“Well, there, if that wasn't a bright trick uh mine? They say the more
yuh hurry the less yuh'll git along, an' that's a sample. We'd ought t'
have five kinds, an' about four uh each kind. It wouldn't do t' run out,
er Mis' Beckman never would let anybody hear the last of it. Down t'
Mary's--”
“Twenty cakes! Good gracious! I'll have to order my stock of medicine,
for I'll surely have a houseful of patients if the guests eat twenty
cakes.”
“Well, as the sayin' is: 'Patience an' perseverance can git away with
most anything,'” observed the Countess, naively.
The Little Doctor retired behind her handkerchief.
“My stars alive, I do b'lieve my bread's beginnin' t' scorch!” cried the
Countess, and ran to see. The Little Doctor followed her inside and sat
down.
“We must make a list of the things we'll need, Louise. You--”
“Dell! Oh-h. Dell!” The voice of the Old Man resounded from the parlor.
“I'm in the kitchen!” called she, remaining where she was. He tramped
heavily through the house to her.
“I'll send the rig in, t'morrow, if there's anything yuh want,” he
remarked. “And if you'll make out a list uh dope, I'll send the order
in t' the Falls. We've got plenty uh saws an' cold chisels down in the
blacksmith shop--you can pick out what yuh want.” He dodged and grinned.
“Got any cake, Countess?”
“Well, there ain't a thing cooked, hardly. I'm going t' bake up
something right after dinner. Here's some sponge cake--but it ain't fit
t' eat, hardly. I let Dell look in the oven, 'cause my han's was all
over flour, an' she slammed the door an' it fell. But yuh can't expect
one person t' know everything--an' too many han's can't make decent
soup, as the sayin' is, an' it's the same way with cake.”
The Old Man winked at the Little Doctor over a great wedge of feathery
delight. “I don't see nothing the matter with this--only it goes down
too easy,” he assured the Countess between mouthfuls. “Fix up your list,
Dell, and don't be afraid t' order everything yuh need. I'll foot the--”
The Old Man, thinking to go back to his work, stepped into the puddle of
soft soap and sat emphatically down upon the top step, coasting rapidly
to the bottom. A carpet slipper shot through the open door and landed
in the dishpan; the other slipper disappeared mysteriously. The wedge of
cake was immediately pounced upon by an investigative hen and carried in
triumph to her brood.
“Good Lord!” J. G. struggled painfully to his feet. “Dell, who in
thunder put that stuff there? You're a little too doggoned anxious for
somebody t' practice on, seems t' me.” A tiny trickle of blood showed in
the thin spot on his head.
“Are you hurt, J. G.? We--I spilled the soap.” The Little Doctor gazed
solicitous, from the doorway.
“Huh! I see yuh spilled the soap, all right enough. I'm willin' to
believe yuh did without no affidavit. Doggone it, a bachelor never has
any such a man-trap around in a fellow's road. I've lived in Montana
fourteen years, an' I never slipped up on my own doorstep till you got
here. It takes a woman t' leave things around--where's my cake?”
“Old Specie took it down by the bunk house. Shall I go after it?”
“No, you needn't. Doggone it, this wading through ponds uh soft soap
has got t' stop right here. I never had t' do it when I was baching,
I notice.” He essayed, with the aid of a large splinter, to scrape the
offending soap from his trousers.
“Certainly, you didn't. Bachelors never use soap,” retorted Della.
“Oh, they don't, hey? That's all you know about it. They don't use
this doggoned, slimy truck, let me tell yuh. What d'yuh want, Chip? Oh,
you've got t' grin, too! Dell, why don't yuh do something fer my head?
What's your license good f er, I'd like t' know? You didn't see Dell's
license, did yuh, Chip? Go and get it an' show it to him, Dell. It's
good fer everything but gitting married--there ain't any cure for that
complaint.”