The boys was a-settin’ ’long the edge of the freight platform, Bergin at the one end of the line, Hairoil at the other, and all of ’em either a-chawin’ ’r a-smokin’. I was down in front, doin’ a promynade back’ards and for’ards, (I was itchin’ so to git started) and keepin’ one eye peeled through the dark towards the southwest–fer the haidlight of ole 202.

“And, Cupid,” Sam Barnes was sayin’, “you’ll find a quart of tanglefoot in that satchel of yourn. Now, you might go eat somethin’ that wouldn’t agree with you in one of them Eye-talian rest’rants. Wal, a swaller of that firewater ’ll straighten you out pronto.”

“Sam, that shore is thoughtful. Use my bronc whenever you want to–she’s over in Sparks’s corral. Allus speak t’ her ’fore you go up to her, though. She’s some skittish.”“And keep you’ money in you’ boot-laig,” begun the sheriff. “I’ve heerd that in Noo York they’s a hull lot of people that plumb wear theyselves out figgerin’ how t’ git holt of cash without workin’ fer it.”

“We’ll miss y’ turrible, Cupid,” breaks in Hairoil. “I don’t hardly know what Briggs ’ll do with you gone. Somehow you allus manage t’ keep the excitement up.”

“But if things don’t go good in Noo York,” adds Hank Shackleton, “why, just holler.”

“Thank y’, Hank,–thank y’.”

A little spot was comin’ and goin’ ’way down the track. The bunch looked that direction silent. Pretty soon, we heerd a rumblin’, and the spot got bigger, and steady.

The boys got down offen the platform and we moseyed over t’ where the end car allus stopped.

Too-oo-oot!

Shackleton reached out fer my hand. “Good-bye, Cupid, you ole son-of-a-gun,” he says almost squeezin’ the paw offen me.

“Take keer of you’self,” says the sheriff.

“Don’t let them fly Noo York dudes git you scairt none” (this was Chub).“That ain’t you’ satchel, Cupid, that’s the mail-bag.”

“Wal, we’d rattle anybody.”

“Here’s Boston, he wants t’ say good-bye.”

“Wave t’ the eatin’-house gals,–cain’t you see ’em at that upper winda?”

“Cupid,”–it was Hairoil, and he put a’ arm acrosst my shoulder–“hope you fergive me fer puttin’ up that shootin’-scrape.”

“Why, a-course, I do.”

Then, whisperin’, “She was the gal I tole you about that time, Cupid: The one I said I’d marry you off to.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“I do. So–the best kind of luck, ole socks!”

“Aw, thank y’, Hairoil.”

Next, pushin’ his way through the bunch, I seen Billy Trowbridge, somethin’ white in his hand. “Cupid,” he says,–into my ear, so’s the others couldn’t ketch it–“if the time ever comes when the little gal makes a big success back there in Noo York, ’r if the time comes when she’s thinkin’ some of startin’ home t’ Oklahomaw again, open this. It’s that other letter of Up-State’s.”“I will, Doc–I will.”

I clumb the steps of the end car and looked round me. On the one side was the mesquite, all black now, and quiet. Say! I hated t’ think it didn’t stretch all the way East! Here, on the other side was the deepot, and Dutchy’s, and the bunk-house, and the feed-shop, and Silverstein’s, and the post-office––

“So long, Cupid!”–it was all-t’gether, gals and fellers, too. Then, “Yee-ee-ee-oop!”–the ole cow-punch yell.

“So long, boys!” I waved my Stetson.

Next thing, Briggs City begun t’ slip back’ards–slow at first, then faster and faster. The hollerin’ of the bunch got sorta fadey; the deepot lights got littler and littler. Off t’ the right, a new light sprung up–it was the lamp in the sittin’-room at the Bar Y.

“Boss,” I says out loud, “they’s a little, empty rockin’-chair byside yourn t’-night. Wal, I’ll never come back this way no more ’less you’ baby gal is home at the ranch-house again t’ fill it.”

Then, I picked up my satchel and hunted the day-coach.

A-course, when I reached Chicago, the first thing I done was to take a fly at that railroad on stilts. Next, I had t’ go over and turn my lanterns on the lake. Pretty soon I was so all-fired broke-in that I could stand on a street corner without bein’ hitched. But people was a-takin’ me fer Bill Cody, and the kids had a notion to fall in behind when I walked any. So I made myself look cityfied. I got a suit–a nice, kinda brownish-reddish colour. I done my sombrero up in a newspaper and purchased a round hat, black and turrible tony. I bought me some sateen shirts,–black, too, with turn-down collars and little bits of white stripes. A white satin tie last of all, and, say! I was fixed!

Wal, after seein’ Chicago, it stands t’ reason that Noo York cain’t git a feller scairt so awful much. Anyhow, it didn’t me. The minute I got offen the train at the Grand Central, I got my boots greased and my clothes breshed; then I looked up one of them Fourth of July hitchin’-posts and had my jaw scraped and my mane cut.

“Pardner,” I says t’ the barber feller, “I want t’ rent a cheap room.”

“Look in the papers,” he advises.

’Twixt him and me, we located a place afore long, and he showed me how t’ git to it. Wal, sir, I was settled in a jiffy. The room wasn’t bigger ’n a two-spot, and the bed was one of them jack-knife kind. But I liked the looks of the shebang. The lady that run it, she almost fell over when I tole her I was a cow-punch.

“Why!” she says, “are y’ shore? You’re tall enough, but you’re a little thick-set. I thought all cow-boys was very slender.”

“No, ma’am,” I says; “we’re slender in books, I reckon. But out in Oklahomaw we come in all styles.”

“Wal,” she goes on, “they’s something else I want to ast. Now, you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot ’round here, are y’? Would you just as lief put you’ pistols away whilst you’re in my house?”

I got serious then. “Ma’am,” I says, “sorry I cain’t oblige y’. But the boys tole me a gun is plumb needful in Noo York. When it comes to killin’ and robbin’, the West has got to back outen the lead.”

You oughta saw her face!

But I didn’t want to look fer no other room, so I pretended t’ knuckle. “I promise not to blow out the gas with my forty-five,” I says, “and I won’t rope no trolley cars–if you’ll please tell me where folks go in this town when they want t’ ride a hoss?”

“Why, in Central Park,” she answers, “on the bridle path.”

“Thank y’, ma’am,” I says, and lit out.

A-course, ’most any person ’d wonder what I’d ast the boardin’-house lady that fer. Wal, I ast it ’cause I knowed Macie Sewell good enough to lay my money on one thing: She was too all-fired gone on hosses to stay offen a saddle more’n twenty-four hours at a stretch.

I passed a right peaceful afternoon, a-settin’ at the bottom of a statue of a man ridin’ a big bronc, with a tall lady runnin’ ahaid and wavin’ a feather. It was at the beginnin’ of the park, and I expected t’ see Mace come lopin’ by any minute. Sev’ral gals did show up, and one ’r two of ’em rid off on bob-tailed hosses, follered by gezabas in white pants and doctor’s hats. Heerd afterwards they was grooms, and bein’ the gals’ broncs was bob-tailed, they had to go ’long to keep off the flies.

But Mace, she didn’t show up. Next day, I waited same way. Day after, ditto. Seemed t’ me ev’ry blamed man, woman and child in the hull city passed me but her. And I didn’t know a one of ’em. A Chink come by oncet, and when I seen his pig-tail swingin’, I felt like I wanted to shake his fist. About that time I begun to git worried, too. “If she ain’t ridin’,” I says to myself, “how ’m I ever goin’ to locate her?”

Another day, when I was settin’ amongst the kids, watchin’, I seen a feller steerin’ my way. “What’s this?” I says, ’cause he didn’t have the spurs of a decent man.

Wal, when he came clost, he begun to smile kinda sloppy, like he’d just had two ’r three. “Why, hello, ole boy,” he says, puttin’ out a bread-hooker; “I met you out West, didn’t I? How are y’?”

I had the sittywaytion in both gauntlets.

“Why, yas,” I answers, “and I’m tickled to sight a familiar face. Fer by jingo! I’m busted. Can you loan me a dollar?”

He got kinda sick ’round the gills. “Wal, the fact is,” he says, swallerin’ two ’r three times, “I’m clean broke myself.”

Just then a gal with a pink cinch comes walkin’ along. She was one of them Butte-belle lookin’ ladies, with blazin’ cheeks, and hair that’s a cross ’twixt molasses candy and the pelt of a kit-fox. She was leadin’ a dog that looked plumb ashamed of hisself.

“Pretty gal,” says the mealy-mouthed gent, grinnin’ some more. “And I know her. Like t’ be interdooced?”

“Don’t bother,” I says. (Her hay was a little too weathered fer me.)

“Nice red cheeks,” he says, rubbin’ his paws t’gether.

“Ya-a-as,” I says, “mighty nice. But you oughta see the squaws out in Oklahomaw. They varies it with yalla and black.”

He give me a kinda keen look. Then he moseyed.

It wasn’t more ’n a’ hour afterwards when somebody passed that I knowed–in one of them dinky, little buggies that ain’t got no cover. Who d’ you think it was?–that Doctor Bugs!

I was at his hoss’s haid ’fore ever he seen me. “Hole up, Simpson,” I says, “I want t’ talk to you.”

“Why, Alec Lloyd!” he says.

“That’s my name.”“How ’d you git here?” He stuck out one of them soft paws of hisn.

“Wal, I got turned this way, and then I just follered my nose.” (I didn’t take his hand. I’d as soon ’a’ touched a snake.)

“Wal, I’m glad t’ see you.” (That was a whopper.) “How’s ev’rybody in Briggs?”

“Never you mind about Briggs. I want t’ ast you somethin’: Where’s Macie Sewell?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I come back. “I know you’re lyin’. When you talked that gal into the op’ra business, you had ’a’ ax t’ grind, yas, you did. Now, where is she?”

He looked plumb nervous. “I tell y’, I don’t know,” he answers; “honest, I don’t. I’ve saw her just oncet–the day after she got here. I offered t’ do anythin’ I could fer her, but she didn’t seem t’ appreciate my kindness.”

“All right,” I says. “But, Simpson, listen: If you’ve said a word t’ that gal that you oughtn’t to, ’r if you’ve follered ’round after her any when she didn’t want you should, you’ll hear from me. Salt that down.” And I let him go.

Meetin’ him that-a-way, made me feel a heap better. If I could run into the only man I knowed in the city of Noo York, then, sometime, I’d shore come acrosst her.

That was the last day I set on the steps of the statue. About sundown, I ast a police feller if anybody could ride in the park without me seein’ ’em from where I was. “Why, yas,” he says, “they’s plenty of entrances, all right. This is just where a few comes in and out. The best way to see the riders is to go ride you’self.”

Don’t know why I didn’t think of that afore. But I didn’t lose no time. Next mornin’, I was up turrible early and makin’ fer a barn clost to the park. I found one easy–pretty frequent thereabouts, y’ savvy,–and begun t’ dicker on rentin’ a hoss. Prices was high, but I done my best, and they led out a nag. And what do you think? It had on one of them saddles with no horn,–a shore enough muley.

Say! that was a hard proposition. “I ast fer a saddle,” I says, “not a postage stamp.” But the stable-keeper didn’t have no other. So I got on and rode slow. When I struck the timber, I felt better, and I started my bronc up. She was one of them kind that can go all day on a shingle. And her front legs acted plumb funny–jerked up and down. I figgered it was the spring halt. But pretty soon I seen other hosses goin’ the same way. So I swallered it, like I done the saddle.

But they was one thing about my cayuse made me hot. She wouldn’t lope. No, ma’am, it was trot, trot, trot, trot, till the roots of my hair was loose, and the lights was near shook outen me. You bet I was mighty glad none of the outfit could see me!

But if they’d ’a’ thought I was funny, they’d ’a’ had a duck-fit at what I seen. First a passel of men come by, all in bloomers, humpin’ fast,–up and down, up and down–Monkey Mike, shore’s you live! None of ’em looked joyful, and you could pretty nigh hear they knees squeak! Then ’long come a gal, humpin’ just the same, and hangin’ on to the side of her cayuse fer dear life, lookin’ ev’ry step like she was goin’ to avalanche. And oncet in a while I passed a feller that was runnin’ a cultivator down the trail,–to keep it nice and soft, I reckon, fer the ladies and gents t’ fall on.

But whilst I was gettin’ kinda used to things, I didn’t stop keepin’ a’ eye out. I went clean ’round the track twicet. No Macie. I tell y’, I begun to feel sorta caved-in. Then, all of a suddent, just as I was toppin’ a little rise of ground, I seen her!

She wasn’t hangin’ on to the side of her hoss, no, ma’am! She was ridin’ the prettiest kind of a bronc, fat and sassy. And she was settin’ a-straddle, straight and graceful, in a spick-and-span new suit, and a three-cornered hat like George Washington.

I let out a yell that would ’a’ raised the hair of a reservation Injun. “Macie Sewell!” I says–just like that. I give my blamed little nag a hit that put her into her jerky trot. And I come ’longside, humpin’ like Sam Hill.

She pulled her hoss down to a standstill; and them long eye-winkers of hern lifted straight up into the air, she was so surprised. “Alec!” she says.

“Yas, Alec,” I answers. “Aw, dear little gal, is y’ glad t’ see me?”

“Wal, what ’re you doin’ here!” she goes on. “I cain’t hardly believe what I see.”

I was so blamed flustered, and so happy, and so–so scairt, that I had t’ go say the one thing that was plumb foolish. “I’m on hand t’ take you back home if you’re ready,” I answers. (Hole on till I give myself another good, ten-hoss-power kick!)

Up till now, her look ’d been all friendly enough. But now of a suddent it got cold and offish. “Take me home!” she begun; “home! Wal, I like that! Why, I’m just about t’ make a great, big success, yas. And I’ll thank you not t’ spoil my chanst with any more of you’ tricks.” She swung her bronc round into the trail.

“Macie! Spoil you’ chanst!” I answers. “Why, honey, I wouldn’t do that. I only want t’ be friends––”

Her eyes can give out fire just like her paw’s. And when I said that, she give me one turrible mad stare. Then, she throwed up her chin, spurred her bronc, and went trottin’ off, a-humpin’ the same as the rest of the ladies.

I follered after her as fast as I could. “Macie,” I says, “talk ain’t goin’ t’ show you how I feel. And I’ll not speak to you again till you want me to. But I’ll allus be clost by. And if ever you need me––”She set her hoss into a run then. So I fell behind–and come nigh pullin’ the mouth plumb outen that crow-bait I was on. “Wal, Mister Cupid,” I says to myself, “that Kansas cyclone the boss talked about seems t’ be still a-movin’.”

I wasn’t discouraged, though,–I wasn’t discouraged.

“One of these times,” I says, “she’ll come t’ know that I only want t’ help her.”

Next mornin’, I started my jumpin’-jack business again. And that whack, I shore got a rough layout: ’Round and ’round that blamed park, two hunderd and forty-’leven times, without grub, ’r a drink, ’r even water! And me a-hirin’ that hoss by the hour!

Just afore sundown, she showed up, and passed me with her eyes fixed on a spot about two miles further on. A little huffy, yet, y’ might say!

I joked to that three-card-monte feller, you recollect, about bein’ busted. Wal, it was beginnin’ t’ look like no joke. ’Cause that very next day I took some stuff acrosst the street to a pawnbroker gent’s, and hocked it. Then I sit down and writ a postal card t’ the boys. “Pass ’round the hat,” I says on the postal card, “and send me the collection. Bar that Mexic. Particulars later on.”

Wal, fer a week, things run smooth. When Mace seen it was no use to change the time fer her ride, she kept to the mornin’. It saved me a pile. But she wouldn’t so much as look at me. Aw, I felt fewey, just fewey.

One thing I didn’t figger on, though–that was the police. They’re white, all right (I mean the police that ride ’round the park). Pretty soon, they noticed I was allus ridin’ behind Macie. I guess they thought I was tryin’ to bother her. Anyhow, one of ’em stopped me one mornin’. “Young feller,” he says, “you’d better ride along Riverside oncet in a while. Ketch on?”

“Yas, sir,” I says, salutin’.

Wal, I was up a stump. If I was to be druv out of the park, how was I ever goin’ to be on hand when Macie ’d take a notion t’ speak.

But I hit on a plan that was somethin’ won-derful. I follered her out and found where she stalled her hoss. Next day, I borraed a’ outfit and waited nigh her barn till she come in sight. Then, I fell in behind–dressed like one of them blamed grooms.

I thought I was slick, and I was–fer a week. But them park police is rapid on faces. And the first one that got a good square look at me and my togs knowed me instant. He didn’t say nothin’ to me, but loped off. Pretty soon, another one come back–a moustached gent, a right dudey one, with yalla tucks on his sleeves.

He rides square up to me. “Say,” he says, “are you acquainted with that young lady on ahaid?”

I tried to look as sad and innocent as a stray maverick. But it was no go. “Wal,” I answers, “our hosses nicker to each other.”

He pulled at his moustache fer a while. “You ain’t no groom,” he says fin’lly. “Where you from?”

“I’m from the Bar Y Ranch, Oklahomaw.”

“That so!” It seemed to plumb relieve him. All of a suddent, he got as friendly as the devil. “Wal, how’s the stock business?” he ast. And I says, “Cows is O. K.” “And how’s the climate down you’ way? And how’s prospects of the country openin’ up fer farmers?”After that, I shed the groom duds, and not a police gent ever more ’n nodded at me. That Bar Y news seemed to make ’em shore easy in they conscience.

But that didn’t help me any with her. She was just as offish as ever. Why, one day when it rained, and we got under the same bridge, she just talked to her hoss all the time.

I went home desp’rate. The boys ’d sent me some cash, but I was shy again. And I’d been to the pawnbroker feller’s so many times that I couldn’t look a Jew in the face without takin’ out my watch.

That night I mailed postal number two. “Take up a collection,” I says again; and added, “Pull that greaser’s laig.”

I knowed it couldn’t allus go on like that. And, by jingo! seems as if things come my way again. Fer one mornin’, when I was settin’ in a caffy eatin’ slap-jacks, I heerd some fellers talkin’ about a herd of Texas hosses that had stampeded in the streets the night back. Wal, I ast ’em a question ’r two, and then I lit out fer Sixty-four Street, my eyes plumb sore fer a look at a Western hoss with a’ ingrowin’ lope.When I got to the corral, what do you think? Right in front of my eyes, a-lookin’ at the herd, and a-pointin’ out her pick, was–Macie Sewell!

I didn’t let her see me. I just started fer a harness shop, and I bought a pair of spurs. “Prepare, m’ son,” I says to myself; “it’ll all be over soon. They’s goin’ to be trouble, Cupid, trouble, when Mace tries to ride a Texas bronc with a city edication that ain’t complete.”

She didn’t show up in the park that day. I jigged ’round, just the same, workin’ them spurs. But early next mornin’, as I done time on my postage stamp, here Mace huv in sight.

Shore enough, she was on a new hoss. It was one of them blue roans, with a long tail, and a roached mane. Gen’ally that breed can go like greased lightnin’, and outlast any other critter on four laigs. But this one didn’t put up much speed that trip. She’d been car-bound seventeen days.

Clost behind her, I come, practicin’ a knee grip.

Nothin’ happened that mornin’. Ev’ry time she got where the trail runs ’longside the wagon-road, none of them locoed bull’s-eye Simpson vehicles was a-passin’. When she went to go into her stable, Mace slowed her down till the street cars was gone by. The blue roan was meeker ’n a blind purp.

But I knowed it couldn’t last.

The next afternoon the roan come good and ready. She done a fancy gait into the park. Say! a J. I. C. bit couldn’t a’ helt her! ’Twixt Fifty-nine and the resservoyer, she lit just four times; and ev’ry time she touched, she kicked dirt into the eyes of the stylish police gent that was keepin’ in handy reach. A little further north, where they’s a hotel, she stood on her hind laigs t’ look at the scenery.

I begun to git scairt. “Speak ’r no speak,” I says to myself, “I’m goin’ to move up.”

That very minute, things come to a haid!

We was all three turned south, when ’long come a goggle-eyed smarty in one of them snortin’ Studebakers. The second the smarty seen Mace was pretty, he blowed his horn to make her look at him. Wal! that roan turned tail and come nigh t’ doin’ a leap-frog over me. The skunk in the buzz-wagon tooted again. And we was off!We took the return trip short cut. First we hit the brush, Mace’s hoss breakin’ trail, mine a clost second, the police gent number three. Then we hit open country, where they’s allus a lot of young fellers and gals battin’ balls over fly-nets. The crowd scattered, and we sailed by, takin’ them nets like claim-jumpers. I heerd a whistle ahaid oncet, and seen a fat policeman runnin’ our way, wavin’ his arms. Then we went tearin’ on,–no stops fer stations–’round the lake, down a road that was thick with keerages,–beatin’ ev’rybody in sight–then into timber again.

It was that takin’ to the woods the second time that done it. In Central Park is a place where they have ducks and geese (keep the Mayor in aigs, I heerd). Wal, just to east, like, of that place, is a butte, all rocks and wash-outs. The blue roan made that butte slick as a Rocky Mountain goat. (We’d shook off the police gent.) At the top, she pitched plumb over, losin’ Mace so neat it didn’t more ’n jar her. My hoss got down on his knees, and I come offen my perch. Then both broncs went on.

I was winded, so I didn’t speak up fer a bit. Fact is, I didn’t exac’ly know what to remark. Oncet I thought I’d say, “You ridin’ a diff’rent hoss t’day, Mace?” ’r “That roan of yourn can lope some.” But both bein’ kinda personal, I kept still.

But pretty soon, I got a hunch. “I just knowed that blamed muley saddle ’d butt me off some day,” I says. “It was shore accomodatin’, though, to let me down right here.”

She didn’t say nothin’. She was settin agin a tree, another of them two-mile looks in her eyes, and she was gazin’ off west.

I lent her way just a little. “What you watchin’, honey?” I ast.

She blushed, awful cute.

I could feel my heart movin’ like a circular saw–two ways fer Sunday. “Honey, what you watchin’?” This time I kinda whispered it.

She reached fer her George Washington, and begun fixin’ to go. “The sky,” she says, some short.

I sighed, and pretended t’ watch the sky, too. It looked yalla, like somebody ’d hit it with a aig.

After while, I couldn’t stand it no longer–I started in again. “Give me a fair shake, Macie,” I says. I was lookin’ at her. Say! they wasn’t no squaw paint on her cheeks, and no do-funny, drug-store stuff in that pretty hair of hern. And them grey eyes––!

But she seemed a hull county off from me, and they was a right cold current blowin’ in my direction.

“Mace,” I begun again, “since you come t’ Noo York you ain’t got you’self promised, ’r nothin’ like that, have you? If you have, I’ll go back and make that Briggs City bunch look like a lot of colanders.”

She shook her haid.

“Aw, Mace!” I says, turrible easied in my mind. “And–and, little gal, has that bug doc been a-holdin’ down a chair at you’ house of Sunday nights?”

“No,–he come just oncet.”

“Why just oncet, honey?”

“I didn’t want him t’ come no more.”

“He said somethin’ insultin.’ I know. And when I see him again––”

She looked at me square then, and I seen a shine in them sweet eyes. “Alec,” she says, “you ast me oncet t’ cut that man out. Wal, when I got here, it was the only thing I could do fer–fer you.”

“My little gal!–and nobody else ain’t been visitin’ you. Aw! I’m a jealous critter!”

“Nobody else. People ain’t very sociable here.” Her lip kinda trembled.

That hurt me, and I run outen talk, fer all I had a heap t’ say. They was a lot of twitterin’ goin’ on overhaid, and she was peekin’ up and ’round, showing a chin that was enough t’ coop the little birds right outen the trees.

I lent closter. “Say, Mace,” I begun again, “ain’t this park O. K. fer green grass? I reckon the Bar Y cows ’d like to be turned loose here.”

She smiled a little, awful tender. “Bar Y!” she says, pullin’ at her gauntlets.

It give me spunk. “Mace,” I says again, “if I’d ’a’ been mean, I’d ’a’ let the parson go on marryin’ us, wouldn’t I? Did you ever think of that, little gal?”

She looked down, blinkin’.

I reached over and got holt of one of her hands. I was breathin’ like pore Up-State. “Honey,” I says, “honey, dear.”She looked square at me. “Alec,” she says, “you didn’t understand me. I ain’t the kind of a gal that can be roped and hobbled and led on a hackamore.”

“And you ain’t the kind t’ dance with greasers,” I says, “–if you’re thinkin’ back to our first little fuss. No, you ain’t. You’re too darned nice fer such cattle.”

By then, I was shakin’ like I had the buck-fever. “Macie,” I goes on, “ain’t you goin’ t’ let me come and see you?”

“Wal–wal––”

I got holt of her other hand. “Aw, little gal,” I says, “nobody wants you t’ win out more ’n I do. I’m no dawg-in-the-manger, Macie. You got a’ awful fine voice. Go ahaid–and be the biggest singer in Amuricaw. But, honey,–that needn’t t’ keep you from likin’ me–from likin’ ole Alec, that cain’t live without his dear little gal––”

“I do like y’! And didn’t I allus say you was t’ come on when I made a success?”

She come into my arms then. And, aw! I knowed just how lonesome she’d been, pore little sweetheart! by the way she clung t’ me.“Alec!–my Alec!”

“Never mind! honey dear, never mind! I’m here t’ take keer of y’.”

Pretty soon, I says, “Macie, I bought somethin’ fer you a while back.” (I felt in my vest pocket.) “Here it is. Will you look at it?”

She looked. And her pretty face got all smiles and blushes, and her eyes tearful. “Alec!” she whispered. “Aint it beautiful!” And she reached out her left hand t’ me.

I took it in both of mine–clost, fer a second. Then I sorted out that slim third finger of hern,–and slipped on my little brandin’-iron.