The ordinary woman would probably have resented this second interruption, taking into consideration the nature of Birdie’s occupation, and the fact that Toby’s visit had hardly proved a success from her point of view. But Birdie was only partially ordinary. Her love and admiration for the opposite sex was so much the chief part of her composition that all other considerations gave way before it. Her heart thrilled with a sickly sentiment at all times. To her men were the gods of the universe, and, as such, must be propitiated, at least in theory. In practice it might be necessary to flout them, to tease them, even to snub them––on rare occasions. But this would only come after intimacy had been established. After that her attitude would be governed by circumstances, and even then her snubs, her floutings, her teasing, would only be done as a further lure, a further propitiation. She loved them all with a wonderful devotion. Her heart was large, so large that the whole race of men could have been easily lost in its mysterious and obscure recesses.

Again her work was bundled into the cupboard, the poor flimsy pattern further suffering. But beyond a casual wonder if the garment would eventually be wearable, cut from so mangled a pattern, she had no real care.

Her smiling eyes turned readily upon the newcomer the moment her secret labors had been hidden from prying male eyes. And there was no mistaking her cordiality for this cold-eyed visitor.

“Sakes alive! but you do look fierce,” she cried challengingly. “You sure must be in a bad temper.”

But Sandy’s expression was simply the outcome of long and difficult consideration. As a matter of fact, in his hard way, he was feeling very delighted. His past married experience had brought him to the conviction that here was the only person in Suffering Creek who could help him.

And, furthermore, he was well satisfied to think that only his experience as a married man could have suggested to him this means of gaining the information required by their president, and so shown him the way to surpass his comrades in his efforts on behalf of the Trust.

But his knowledge of womankind warned him that he must not be too hasty. He must not show his hand until he had established himself in a favorable position in the susceptible Birdie’s heart. With this object in view he set himself to offer his blandishments in characteristic fashion. He did not suffer from Toby’s complaint of bashfulness. Married life had cured him of that. In consequence, his method, if crude, was direct.

“I can’t say the same of you, Birdie,” he declared unsmilingly. “You’re bloomin’ as––as a kebbige.”

“Kebbige?” sniffed the girl.

“Kebbige, sure,” nodded the man of married experience. “Guess mebbe it ain’t a bokay fer smell. But fer taste––with corned beef? Gee!”

Birdie took no umbrage.

“You got to it––after awhiles,” she remarked slyly. Then she added, with a gush, “D’you know, I’m allus most scared to death of you men. You’re that big an’ strong, it makes me feel you could well-nigh eat me.”

Sandy availed himself of the invitation.

“A tasty mouthful,” he declared. And without more ado he passed round the table, caught her quickly in his arms, and, without the smallest expression of interest, kissed her. If interest were lacking, his movements were so swift that, had the girl the least idea of avoiding the embrace––which she hadn’t––she would have found it difficult to do so.

“You men are ones!” she declared, with a little gasp, as his arms fell from about her.

“How’s that?”

“I never did––the cheek of some of you!”

“A feller needs cheek,” replied the self-satisfied widower. “’Specially with pretty gals around,” he added condescendingly.

Birdie eyed him archly.

“Gals?” she inquired.

“I should have said ‘gal.’”

The laughing nod that rewarded him assured Sandy that he was well on the right track, and at once he took the opportunity of introducing the object of his visit.

“Say,” he began, “guess you never tho’t o’ gettin’ hitched up to a feller?”

Birdie lowered her eyelids and struggled for a blush, which somehow defied her best efforts. But her subtleties were quite lost upon Sandy, and in his eagerness he waited for no reply.

“No, course you hain’t. You got so many beaus to choose from. ’Sides,” he added thoughtfully, “gettin’ married sure needs special savvee. What I mean,” he explained, seeing the amused wonder in the girl’s now wide eyes, “you kind o’ need eddicatin’ to git married. Y’see, when you get fixed that way you sort of, in a manner of speakin’, got to unlearn things you never learnt, an’ learn them things what can’t never be taught. What I mean is, marriage is a sort of eddication of itself, wot don’t learn you nuthin’ till you git––unmarried. Savee?”

The girl shook her head in bewilderment.

“That’s sure too bright fer me.”

“That’s ’cos you ain’t been married. Y’see, I have.”

“Can’t you put it easier––seein’ I ain’t been married?”

“Sure I can.” Sandy took up a position, on the edge of the table with such a judicial air that the girl started to giggle.

“See here,” he began largely. “Now what d’you know ’bout kids––raisin’ ’em, I mean?”

The girl’s eyes twinkled on the verge of laughing outright.

“Zip’s kids?” she inquired shrewdly.

Sandy started and frowned.

“What d’you mean––Zip’s kids?”

“Oh, just nothing,” said Birdie airily. “Seein’ kids was in your mind, I naturally tho’t o’ Zip’s.”

Sandy nodded. But he was only half convinced. How on earth, he wondered, did she know he was thinking of Zip’s kids? He felt that it would be best to nip that idea in the bud. It was undignified that he should appear to be interested in Zip’s twins.

“I ain’t interested in no special kids,” he said, with some dignity. “I was just theorizin’––like. Now, if you got married, wot you know of raisin’ kids? Guess you’re that ignorant of the subject maybe you’d feed ’em hay?”

Birdie laughed dutifully, but her retort was rather disconcerting.

“You bin married––how’d you feed ’em? I’m learning.”

“How’d I feed ’em?” Sandy eyed his tormentor severely. “That ain’t the question. How’d you feed ’em?”

The girl thought for a moment, and then looked up brightly.

“If they was Zip’s kids––”

“I said they ain’t.”

“Well, if they were, I’d say––”

“See here, cut Zip’s kids out. They ain’t in this shootin’ match,” cried Sandy testily.

But Birdie persisted slyly.

“Y’see, I must get some kids in my eye if I’m to answer you right,” she said. “I can see things better that way. Now, if they were Zip’s kids––”

“Which they ain’t,” asseverated the man doggedly.

“Which they ain’t,” nodded Birdie, “I’d feed ’em cereals an’ pap––”

Sandy’s face suddenly cleared. His whole being seemed to expand.

“Say, you’re a bright gal,” he declared. “Cereals an’ pap. That’s dead right. Say, you know more than––You’d give ’em milk to drink––now?” he suggested.

“Oh no, nothing like that. Water.”

The man looked disappointed.

“Water?” he said. “You sure of that? But I guess you’d give ’em banannys?”

Again the girl shook her head.

“Fruit gives ’em colic.”

“Ah, yes, that’s so. They’d need physic then, wouldn’t they?”

“You need to be easy with physic, too,” declared the girl, with sparkling eyes. “Don’t give ’em physic ever unless they’re real sick.”

The man’s crestfallen appearance set Birdie giggling. She was enjoying the situation. She meant to upset all Sandy’s preconceived ideas.

“Now, pork?” he suggested, but with less assurance.

But Birdie was obdurate.

“Never,” she declared emphatically. “Beans, yes. There’s good nourishment in beans. Then ther’s fresh vegetables––heaps of ’em.”

“Ah! Now, how ’bout fixin’ them right––the kids, I mean? Guess they’ll need bathin’.”

But Birdie fell upon him with a strong denial.

“Bath?” she cried. “Gee! you do run on. Guess you want to hand ’em newmony. Kids sure don’t never need bathin’. Jest a lick with soap an’ hot water once a week. An’ say,” she went on, suddenly remembering something she had told Toby in a fit of mischief, “kep their food soft, or you’ll break their young teeth.”

Sandy’s eyes lit, and in an unguarded moment he admitted that the thought had occurred to him. Birdie caught him up at once.

“I tho’t you was just astin’ me these questions to see if I was right for gettin’ married?” she protested innocently.

“That’s so––course,” he said hastily. Then he wriggled out of it. “But how’d I be able to say you was right if I hadn’t tho’t on things some myself?”

“Ah! I didn’t just think of that.”

“Course not. Gals never see the fine points of good argyment.”

Sandy’s superiority was overwhelming, but Birdie had borne with him with amused patience until now. She had known him a long time as a boarder, but never until now had she realized the blundering conceit that was his. She felt that she had given him rope enough, and it was time to bring him up with a jerk.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” she mocked him, curtseying.

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Sandy returned, with a clumsy bow, failing to realize her change of attitude.

“If you guess I’m right for marryin’, maybe you’ll hand me my diploma,” she said, with a demure down-drooping of her eyelids.

She waited, and finally glanced up into his flushed face. Her sarcasm had struck home at last, and without hesitation she went on mercilessly––

“Say, if you ain’t goin’ to hand me a diploma, guess you can let me get on with my sewin’. Havin’ been a married man, maybe you’ll understand men-folk ain’t a heap of use around when a woman’s sewin’. Guess they’re handy ladlin’ out most things, but I’d say a man ain’t no more use round the eye of a needle than a camel.”

Sandy’s dignity and temper were ruffled. It was inconceivable that Birdie––or, as he mentally apostrophized her, “this blamed hash-slinger”––should so flout him. How dared she? He was so angry that words for once utterly failed him, and he moved towards the door with gills as scarlet as any blustering turkey-cock. But Birdie had no idea of sparing him, and hurled her final sarcasm as she turned again to her cupboard.

“I’d hate to be one o’ Zip’s kids with you gettin’ busy around me,” she cried, chuckling in an infuriating manner.

It was too much for Sandy. He turned fiercely as he reached the door.

“You’re ‘bug,’” he declared roughly. “I tell you, Zip’s kids ain’t nothin’ to do with me––”

“Which, I’d say, was lucky for them,” cried Birdie airily.

“An’ I’d jest like to say that when a genelman gits around to do the perlite by a no-account mutton-worrier, he figgers to be treat right––”

Birdie turned on him with cold eyes.

“I’ll sure be treatin’ you right,” she said, “when I tell you that door don’t need shuttin’ after you. It’s on the swing.”

She did not wait to witness her guest’s departure. She felt it would not be graceful, under the circumstances. So, pushing her head into the cupboard, she once more gathered up her work.

When the soft swish of the swing-door told her that Sandy’s departure had been taken, she emerged with her bundle and spread it out on the table for the third time. She was all smiles. She was not a bit angry with the foolish widower. This dogmatic attitude of mind, this wonderful self-satisfaction, were peculiar to the creature; he couldn’t help it. But it had roused a mischievous spirit in her, and the temptation was too great to resist. The only thing she regretted was having let him kiss her, and she at once put up her hand to wipe the spot where the operation had been performed. At any rate, she had certainly taken him down a peg or two, and the thought set her in high good-humor.

Nor could she help wondering at his stupidity in imagining she couldn’t see through his desire for information about children. It was laughable, coming after Toby’s. Oh, these men! They were dear, foolish creatures. Poor kids, she thought, her mind reverting to Zip’s twins. What had they done to have this pack of foolish people worrying over them? Were they all going to take a hand in bringing the youngsters up? Well, anyhow, she pitied them.

She smiled at her thoughts as the busy scissors snipped their way round the pattern. These men were too funny. First Toby, now Sandy––who next?

She started and looked up, her scissors poised in the air. The swing-door had swished open, and Wild Bill stood before her.

“Good sakes!” she cried. “How you scared me!” Then, realizing what lay before her, she grabbed up her work, and was for returning it to the cupboard.

But Wild Bill was in a hurry. Besides, he had nothing of the ingratiating ways of the other men about him. He saw her object, and stayed her in his own peculiar authoritative fashion.

“Say, you can quit huggin’ them fixin’s,” he cried. “I ain’t come pryin’ around a leddy’s wardrobe. You ken jest set down with paper an’ ink an’ things, an’ write down how best Zip’s kids can be raised. I’ll git right back for it in ha’f-an-hour.”

Nor did he wait for any reply. It was taken for granted that his demands would be promptly acceded to, and he vanished as abruptly as he came. The swing-door closed, and Birdie gave a sigh.

“An’ him, too,” she murmured. “Well, I do declare. It just licks creation.”

But this was a different proposition to either Toby or Sandy. She sprang to her task for the great Wild Bill in a way that spoke volumes for her sentimental heart. Wild Bill? Well, she would never have owned it, but there was just one man in the world that scared Birdie to death, and at the same time made her think her path was a bed of roses, and that was Wild Bill. In an astonishingly short time she was sitting at the table poring over a writing-pad, and biting the already well-chewed end of a pen.

Outside, in the smoke-laden atmosphere of the store, amidst the busy click of poker chips and clink of glasses, Wild Bill was talking earnestly to Minky, who was standing behind the counter.

They had been talking for some time. Minky’s eyes frequently wandered in the direction of a table where four strangers were playing. But no one could have guessed, in his quiet scrutiny, the anxiety that lay behind it.

“You must git out to-night?” he inquired of his hawk-visaged friend.

“Sure,” responded Bill absently.

“High finance?”

Bill nodded, with the ghost of a smile.

“A gang of rich guys,” he said. “They’re gathering at Spawn City for a financial descent on Suffering Creek. They’re all minin’ folk. Guess they’ll be yearning for a big game.”

“When’ll you git back?”

“Noon, day after to-morrow, maybe.”

Bill had turned away, and was abstractedly contemplating the strangers. Suddenly he turned again, and his steely eyes fixed themselves on the troubled Minky.

“Say, things is gettin’ on your nerves. It ain’t yet. Those folks is only lookin’ fer pointers.”

“An’ findin’ ’em?”

“Mebbe. But it takes time. Say, we ain’t dead in Suffering Creek yet. I’ll be around before––”

“Trouble gits busy.” Minky laughed hollowly.

“Sure. I’m most gener’ly around when trouble––gits busy. I’m made like that.”

“I’m glad.”

Bill drank up the remains of his drink and began to move away.

“Wher’ you going now?” inquired Minky.

“See my plugs fed an’ watered, and then gittin’ around my shack. I’ve got to see some folks before I hit the trail. Say, I ain’t got big enough wad. Best hand me a couple o’ thousand.”

Minky dived under his counter, and, after fumbling for some time, reappeared with the required sum in United States currency.

“Good luck,” he said, as he passed it across the counter cautiously.

“Thanks. An’, say––see the boys keep a close eye on Zip––an’ the kids. So long.”

He moved away, but instead of passing out of the front door he disappeared into the dining-room at the back.