"Huh! Get on to the glad rags!"
Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke,
vainly attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he
had just put on, was irritated.
"They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy," Shorty went on. "What
was the tax?"
"One hundred and fifty for the suit," Smoke answered. "The man was
nearly my own size. I thought it was remarkable reasonable. What are
you kicking about?"
"Who? Me? Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' it was goin' some for a
meat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit of
underclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an' overalls that looked like
they'd ben through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay front,
pardner. Pretty gay front. Say--?"
"What do you want now?" Smoke demanded testily.
"What's her name?"
"There isn't any her, my friend. I'm to have dinner at Colonel
Bowie's, if you want to know. The trouble with you, Shorty, is you're
envious because I'm going into high society and you're not invited."
"Ain't you some late?" Shorty queried with concern.
"What do you mean?"
"For dinner. They'll be eatin' supper when you get there."
Smoke was about to explain with elaborate sarcasm when he caught the
twinkle in the others' eyes. He went on dressing, with fingers that
had lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a bow-knot at the
throat of the soft cotton shirt.
"Wish I hadn't sent all my starched shirts to the laundry," Shorty
murmured sympathetically. "I might a-fitted you out."
By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The thick woollen
socks were too thick to go into them. He looked appealingly at Shorty,
who shook his head.
"Nope. If I had thin ones I wouldn't lend 'em to you. Back to the
moccasins, pardner. You'd sure freeze your toes in skimpy-fangled gear
like that."
"I paid fifteen dollars for them, second-hand," Smoke lamented.
"I reckon they won't be a man not in moccasins."
"But there are to be women, Shorty. I'm going to sit down and eat with
real live women--Mrs Bowie, and several others, so the Colonel told me."
"Well, moccasins won't spoil their appetite none," was Shorty's
comment. "Wonder what the Colonel wants with you?"
"I don't know, unless he's heard about my finding Surprise Lake. It
will take a fortune to drain it, and the Guggenheims are out for
investment."
"Reckon that's it. That's right, stick to the moccasins. Gee! That
coat is sure wrinkled, an' it fits you a mite too swift. Just peck
around at your vittles. If you eat hearty you'll bust through. And if
them women-folks gets to droppin' handkerchiefs, just let 'em lay.
Don't do any pickin' up. Whatever you do, don't."