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“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin’ way to the sea; And dearer by f-a-a-ar––”

“Now, look a-here, Alec Lloyd,” broke in Hairoil Johnson, throwin’ up one hand like as if to defend hisself, and givin’ me a kinda scairt look, “you shut you’ bazoo right this minute–and git! Whenever you begin singin’ that song, I know you’re a-figgerin’ on how to marry somebody off to somebody else. And I just won’t have you around!”

We was a-settin’ t’gether on the track side of the deepot platform at Briggs City, him a-holdin’ down one end of a truck, and me the other. The mesquite lay in front of us, and it was all a sorta greenish brown account of the pretty fair rain we’d been havin’. They’s miles of it, y’ savvy, runnin’ so far out towards the west line of Oklahomaw that it plumb slices the sky. Through it, north and south, the telegraph poles go straddlin’–in the direction of Kansas City on the right hand, and off past Rogers’s Butte to Albuquerque on the left. Behind us was little ole Briggs, with its one street of square-front buildin’s facin’ the railroad, and a scatterin’ of shacks and dugouts and corrals and tin-can piles in behind.

Little ole Briggs! Sometimes, you bet you’ life, I been pretty down on my luck in Briggs, and sometimes I been turrible happy; also, I been just so-so. But, no matter how things pan out, darned if I cain’t allus say truthful that she just about suits me–that ornery, little, jerkwater town!

The particular day I’m a-speakin’ of was a jo-dandy–just cool enough to make you want t’ keep you’ back aimed right up at the sun, and without no more breeze than ’d help along a butterfly. Then, the air was all nice and perfumey, like them advertisin’ picture cards you git at a drugstore. So, bein’ as I was enjoyin’ myself, and a-studyin’ out somethin’ as I hummed that was mighty important, why, I didn’t want t’ mosey, no, ma’am.

But Hairoil was mad. I knowed it fer the reason that he’d called me Alec ’stead of Cupid. Y’ see, all the boys call me Cupid. And I ain’t ashamed of it, neither. Somebody’s got t’ help out when it’s a case of two lovin’ souls that’s bein’ kept apart.

“Now, pardner,” I answers him, as coaxin’ as I could, “don’t you go holler ’fore you’re hit. It happens that I ain’t a-figgerin’ on no hitch-up plans fer you.”

Hairoil, he stood up–quick, so that I come nigh fallin’ offen my end of the truck. “But you are fer some other pore cuss,” he says. “You as good as owned up.”

“Yas,” I answers, “I are. But the gent in question wouldn’t want you should worry about him. All that’s a-keepin’ him anxious is that mebbe he won’t git his gal.”

“Alec,” Hairoil goes on,–turrible solemn, he was–“I have decided that this town has had just about it’s fill of this Cupid business of yourn–and I’m a-goin’ t’ stop it.”

I snickered. “Y’ are?” I ast. “Wal, how?”

“By marryin’ you off. When you’re hitched up you’self, you won’t be so all-fired anxious t’ git other pore fellers into the traces.”

“That good news,” I says. “Who’s the for-tunate gal you’ve picked fer me?”

“Never you mind,” answers Hairoil. “She’s a new gal, and she’ll be along next week.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Is she pretty! Say! Pretty ain’t no name fer it! She’s got big grey eyes, with long, black, sassy winkers, and brown hair that’s all kinda curly over the ears. Then her cheeks is pink, and she’s got the cutest mouth a man ’most ever seen.”

Wal, a-course, I thought he was foolin’. (And mebbe he was–then.) A gal like that fer me!–a fine, pretty gal fer such a knock-kneed, slab-sided son-of-a-gun as me? I just couldn’t swaller that.

But, aw! if I only had ’a’ knowed how that idear of hisn was a-goin’ t’ grow!–that idear of him turnin’ Cupid fer me, y’ savvy. And if only I’d ’a’ knowed what a turrible bust-up he’d fin’lly be responsible fer ’twixt me and the same grey-eyed, sassy-winkered gal! If I had, it’s a cinch I’d ’a’ sit on him hard–right then and there.

I didn’t, though. I switched back on to what was a-puzzlin’ and a-worryin’ me. “Billy Trowbridge,” I begun, “has waited too long a’ready fer Rose Andrews. And if things don’t come to a haid right soon, he’ll lose her.”

Hairoil give a kinda jump. “The Widda Andrews,” he says, “–Zach Sewell’s gal? So you’re a-plannin’ t’ interfere in the doin’s of ole man Sewell’s fambly.”

“Yas.”

He reached fer my hand and squz it, and pretended t’ git mournful, like as if he wasn’t never goin’ t’ see me again. “My pore friend!” he says.

“Wal, what’s eatin’ you now?” I ast.

“Nothin’–only that pretty gal I tole you about, she’s––”

Then he stopped short.

“She’s what?”

He let go of my hand, shrug his shoulders, and started off. “Never mind,” he called back. “Let it drop. We’ll just see. Mebbe, after all, you’ll git the very lesson you oughta have. Ole man Sewell!” And, shakin’ his haid, he turned the corner of the deepot.

Wal, who was Sewell anyhow?–no better’n any other man. I’d knowed him since ’fore the Oklahomaw Rushes, and long ’fore he’s wired-up half this end of the Terrytory. And I’d knowed his oldest gal, Rose, since she was knee-high to a hop-toad. Daisy gal, she allus was, by thunder! And mighty sweet. Wal, when, after tyin’ up t’ that blamed fool Andrews, she’d got her matreemonal hobbles off in less’n six months–owin’ t’ Monkey Mike bein’ a little sooner in the trigger finger–why, d’you think I was a-goin’ to stand by and see a tin-horn proposition like that Noo York Simpson put a vent brand on her? Nixey!

It was ole man Sewell that bossed the first job and cut out Andrews fer Rose’s pardner. Sewell’s that breed, y’ know, hard-mouthed as a mule, and if he cain’t run things, why, he’ll take a duck-fit. But he shore put his foot in it that time. Andrews was as low-down and sneakin’ as a coyote, allus gittin’ other folks into a fuss if he could, but stayin’ outen range hisself. The little gal didn’t have no easy go with him–we all knowed that, and she wasn’t happy. Wal, Mike easied the sittywaytion. He took a gun with a’ extra long carry and put a lead pill where it’d do the most good; and the hull passel of us was plumb tickled, that’s all, just plumb tickled–even t’ the sheriff.

I said pill just now. Funny how I just fall into the habit of usin’ doctor words when I come to talk of this particular mix-up. That’s ’cause Simpson, the tin-horn gent I mentioned, is a doc. And so’s Billy Trowbridge–Billy Trowbridge is the best medicine-man we ever had in these parts, if he did git all his learnin’ right here from his paw. He ain’t got the spondulix, and so he ain’t what you’d call tony. But he’s got his doctor certificate, O. K., and when it comes t’ curin’, he can give cards and spades to any of you’ highfalutin’ college gezabas, and then beat ’em out by a mile. That’s straight!

Billy, he’d allus liked Rose. And Rose’d allus liked Billy. Wal, after Andrews’s s-a-d endin’, you bet I made up my mind that Billy’d be ole man Sewell’s next son-in-law. Billy was smart as the dickens, and young, and no drunk. He hadn’t never wore no hard hat, neither, ’r roached his mane pompydory, and he was one of the kind that takes a run at they fingernails oncet in a while. Now, mebbe a puncher ’r a red ain’t par-ticular about his hands; but a profeshnal gent’s got to be. And with a nice gal like Rose, it shore do stack up.

But it didn’t stand the chanst of a snow-man in Yuma when it come to ole man Sewell. Doc Simpson was new in town, and Sewell’d ast him out to supper at the Bar Y ranch-house two ’r three times. And he was clean stuck on him. To hear the ole man talk, Simpson was the cutest thing that’d ever come into the mesquite. And Billy? Wal, he was the bad man from Bodie.

Say! but all of us punchers was sore when we seen how Sewell was haided!–not just the ole man’s outfit at the Bar Y, y’ savvy, but the bunch of us at the Diamond O. None of us liked Simpson a little bit. He wore fine clothes, and a dicer, and when it come to soothin’ the ladies and holdin’ paws, he was there with both hoofs. Then, he had all kinds of fool jiggers fer his business, and one of them toot surreys that’s got ingine haidlights and two seats all stuffed with goose feathers and covered with leather–reg’lar Standard Sleeper.

It was that gasoline rig that done Billy damage, speakin’ financial. The minute folks knowed it was in Briggs City, why they got a misery somewheres about ’em quick–just to have it come and stand out in front, smellin’ as all-fired nasty as a’ Injun, but lookin’ turrible stylish. The men was bad enough about it, and when they had one of Doc Simpson’s drenches they haids was as big as Bill Williams’s Mountain. But the women! The hull cavvieyard of ’em, exceptin’ Rose, stampeded over to him. And Billy got such a snow-under that they had him a-diggin’ fer his grass.

I was plumb crazy about it. “Billy,” I says one day, when I met him a-comin’ from ’Pache Sam’s hogan on his bicycle; “Billy, you got to do somethin’.” (Course, I didn’t mention Rose.) “You goin’ to let any sawed-off, hammered-down runt like that Simpson drive you out? Why, it’s free grazin’ here!”

Billy, he smiled kinda wistful and begun to brush the alkali offen that ole Stetson of hisn, turnin’ it ’round and ’round like he was worried. “Aw, never mind, Cupid,” he says; “–just keep on you’ shirt.”

But pretty soon things got a darned sight worse, and I couldn’t hardly hole in. Not satisfied with havin’ the hull country on his trail account of that surrey, Simpson tried a new deal: He got to discoverin’ bugs!

He found out that Bill Rawson had malaria bugs, and the Kelly kid had diphtheria bugs, and Dutchy had typhoid bugs that didn’t do business owin’ to the alcohol in his system. (Too bad!) Why, it was astonishin’ how many kinds of newfangled critters we’d never heard of was a-livin’ in this Terrytory!

But all his bugs didn’t split no shakes with Rose. She was polite to Simpson, and friendly, but nothin’ worse. And it was plainer ’n the nose on you’ face that Billy was solid with her. But the ole man is the hull show in that fambly, y’ savvy; and all us fellers could do was to hope like sixty that nothin’ ’d happen to give Simpson a’ extra chanst. But, crimini! Somethin’ did happen: Rose’s baby got sick. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, kinda whined all the time, like a sick purp, and begun to look peaked–pore little kid!

I was out at the Bar Y that same day, and when the news got over to the bunk-house, we was all turrible excited. “Which’ll the ole man send after,” we says, “–Simpson ’r Billy?”

It was that bug-doctor!

He come down the road two-forty, settin’ up as stiff as if he had a ramrod in his backbone. I just happened over towards the house as he turned in at the gate. He staked out his surrey clost to the porch and stepped down. My! such nice little button shoes!

“Aw, maw!” says Monkey Mike; “he’s too rich fer my blood!”

The ole man come out to say howdy. When Simpson seen him, he says, “Mister Sewell, they’s some hens ’round here, and I don’t want ’em to hop into my machine whilst I’m in the house.” Then, he looks at me. “Can you’ hired man keep ’em shooed?” he says.

Hired man! I took a jump his direction that come nigh to splittin’ my boots. “Back up, m’ son,” I says, reachin’ to my britches pocket. “I ain’t no hired man.”

Sewell, he puts in quick. “No, no, Doc,” he says; “this man’s one of the Diamond O cow-boys. Fer heaven’s sake, Cupid! You’re gittin’ to be as touchy as a cook!”

Simpson, he apologised, and I let her pass f er that time. But, a-course, far’s him and me was concerned–wal, just wait. As I say, he goes in,–the ole man follerin’–leavin’ that gasoline rig snortin’ and sullin’ and lookin’ as if it was just achin’ t’ take a run at the bunk-house and bust it wide open. I goes in, too,–just t’ see the fun.

There was that Simpson examinin’ the baby, and Rose standin’ by, lookin’ awful scairt. He had a rain-gauge in his hand, and was a-squintin’ at it important. “High temper’ture,” he says; “ ’way up to hunderd and four.” Then he jabbed a spoon jigger into her pore little mouth. Then he made X brands acrosst her soft little back with his fingers. Then he turned her plumb over and begun to tunk her like she was a melon. And when he’d knocked the wind outen her, he pro-duced a bicycle pump, stuck it agin her chest, and put his ear to the other end. “Lungs all right,” he says; “heart all right. Must be––” Course, you know–bugs!

“But–but, couldn’t it be teeth?” ast Rose.

Simpson grinned like she was a’ idjit, and he was sorry as the dickens fer her. “Aw, a baby ain’t all teeth,” he says.

Wal, he left some truck ’r other. Then he goes out, gits into his Pullman section, blows his punkin whistle and departs.

Next day, same thing. Temper’ture’s still up. Medicine cain’t be kept down. Case turrible puzzlin’. Makes all kinds of guesses. Leaves some hoss liniment. Toot! toot!

Day after, changes the program. Sticks a needle into the kid and gits first blood. Says somethin’ about “Modern scientific idears,” and tracks back t’ town.

Things run along that-a-way fer a week. Baby got sicker and sicker. Rose got whiter and whiter, and thinned till she was about as hefty as a shadda. Even the ole man begun t’ look kinda pale ’round the gills. But Simpson didn’t miss a trick. And he come t’ the ranch-house so darned many times that his buckboard plumb oiled down the pike.

“Rose,” I says oncet to her, when I stopped by, “cain’t we give Billy Trowbridge a chanst? That Simpson doc ain’t worth a hill of beans.”

Rose didn’t say nothin’. She just turned and lent over the kid. Gee whiz! I hate t’ see a woman cry!

’Way early, next day, the kid had a convul-sion, and ev’rybody was shore she was goin’ to kick the bucket. And whilst a bunch of us was a-hangin’ ’round the porch, pretty nigh luny about the pore little son-of-a-gun, Bill Rawson come–and he had a story that plumb took the last kink outen us.

I hunts up the boss. “Mister Sewell,” I says, by way of beginnin’, “I’m feard we’re goin’ to lose the baby. Simpson ain’t doin’ much, seems like. What y’ say if I ride in fer Doc Trowbridge?”

“Trowbridge?” he says disgusted. “No, ma’am! Simpson’ll be here in a jiffy!”

“I reckon Simpson’ll be late,” I says. “Bill Rawson seen him goin’ towards Goldstone just now in his thrashin’-machine with a feemale settin’ byside him. Bill says she was wearin’ one of them fancy collar-box hats, with a duck-wing hitched on to it, and her hair was all mussy over her eyes–like a cow with a board on its horns–and she had enough powder on her face t’ make a biscuit.”

The ole man begun t’ chaw and spit like a bob-cat. “I ain’t astin’ Bill’s advice,” he says. “When I want it, I’ll let him know. If Simpson’s busy over t’ Goldstone, we got to wait on him, that’s all. But Trowbridge? Not no-ways!”

I seen then that it was time somebody mixed in. I got onto my pinto bronc and loped fer town. But all the way I couldn’t think what t’ do. So I left Maud standin’ outside of Dutchy’s, and went over and sit down next Hairoil on the truck. And that’s where I was–a-hummin’ to myself and a-workin’ my haid–when he give me that rakin’ over about playin’ Cupid, and warned me agin monkeyin’ with ole man Sewell.

Wal, when Hairoil up and left me, I kept right on a-studyin’. I knowed, a-course, that I could go kick up a fuss when Simpson stopped by his office on his trip back from Goldstone. But that didn’t seem such a’ awful good plan. Also, I could––

Just then, I heerd my cow-pony kinda whinny. I glanced over towards her. She was standin’ right where I’d left her, lines on the ground, eyes peeled my way. And such a look as she was a-givin’ me!–like she knowed what I was a-worryin’ about and was surprised I was so blamed thick.

I jumped up and run over to her. “Maud,” I says, “you got more savvy ’n any horse I know, bar none. Danged if we don’t do it!”

First off, I sent word t’ Billy that he was to show up at the Sewell ranch-house about four o’clock. And when three come, me and Maud was on the Bar Y road where it goes acrosst that crick-bottom. She was moseyin’ along, savin’ herself, and I was settin’ sideways like a real lady so’s I could keep a’ eye towards town. Pretty soon, ’way back down the road, ’twixt the barb-wire fences, I seen a cloud of dust a-travellin’–a-travellin’ so fast they couldn’t be no mistake. And in about a minute, the signs was complete–I heerd a toot. I put my laig over then.

Here he come, that Simpson in his smelly Pullman, takin’ the grade like greased lightin’. “Now, Maud!” I whispers to the bronc. And, puttin’ my spurs into her, I begun t’ whip-saw from one fence to the other.

He slowed up and blowed his whistle.

I hoed her down harder’n ever.

“You’re a-skeerin’ my hoss,” I yells back.

“Pull t’ one side,” he answers. “I want to git by.”

But Maud wouldn’t pull. And everywheres Simpson was, she was just in front, actin’ as if she was scairt plumb outen her seven senses. The worse she acted, a-course, the madder I got! Fin’lly, just as Mister Doc was managin’ to pass, I got turrible mad, and, cussin’ blue blazes, I took out my forty-five and let her fly.

One of them hind tires popped like the evenin’ gun at Fort Wingate. Same minute, that hidebound rig-a-ma-jig took a shy and come nigh buttin’ her fool nose agin a fence-post. But Simpson, he geed her quick and started on. I put a hole in the other hind tire. She shied again–opp’site direction–snortin’ like she was wind-broke. He hawed her back. Then he went a-kitin’ on, leavin’ me a-eatin’ his dust.

But I wasn’t done with him, no, ma’am.

Right there the road make a kinda horse-shoe turn–like this, y’ savvy–to git ’round a fence corner. I’d cal’lated on that. I just give Maud a lick ’longside the haid, jumped her over the fence, quirted her a-flyin’ acrosst that bend, took the other fence, and landed about a hunderd feet in front of him.

When he seen me through his goggles, he come on full-steam. I set Maud a-runnin’ the same direction–and took up my little rope.

About two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and it happened. He got nose and nose with me. I throwed, ketchin’ him low–’round his chest and arms. Maud come short.

Say! talk about you’ flyin’-machines! Simpson let go his holt and took to the air, sailin’ up right easy fer a spell, flappin’ his wings all the time; then, doublin’ back somethin’ amazin’, and fin’lly comin’ down t’ light.

And that gasoline bronc of hisn–minute she got the bit, she acted plumb loco. She shassayed sideways fer a rod, buckin’ at ev’ry jump. Pretty soon, they was a turn, but she didn’t see it. She left the road and run agin the fence, cuttin’ the wires as clean in two as a pliers-man. Then, outen pure cussedness, seems like, she made towards a cottonwood, riz up on her hind laigs, clumb it a ways, knocked her wind out, pitched oncet ’r twicet, tumbled over on to her quarters, and begun t’ kick up her heels.

“He lay the kid lookin’ up and put his finger into her mouth”

I looked at Simpson. He’d been settin’ on the ground; but now he gits up, pullin’ at the rope gentle, like a lazy sucker. Say! but his face was ornamented!

I give him a nod. “Wal, Young-Man-That-Flies-Like-A-Bird?” I says, inquirin’.

He began to paw up the road like a mad bull. “I’ll make you pay fer this!” he bellered.

“You cain’t git blood outen a turnip,” I answers, sweet as sugar; and Maud backed a step ’r two, so’s the rope wouldn’t slack.

“How dast you do such a’ infameous thing!” he goes on.

“You gasoline gents got t’ have a lesson,” I answers; “you let the stuff go t’ you’ haids. Why, a hired man ain’t got a chanst fer his life when you happen t’ be travellin’.”

He begun t’ wiggle his arms. “You lemme go,” he says.

“Go where?” I ast.

“T’ my machine.”

I looked over at her. She was quiet now, but sweatin’ oil somethin’ awful. “How long’ll it take you t’ git her on to her laigs?” I ast.

“She’s ruined!” he says, like he was goin’ to bawl. “And I meant t’ go down to Goldstone t’night.”

“That duck-wing lady’ll have t’ wait fer the train,” I says. “But never mind. I’ll tell Rose Andrews you got the engagement.” Then Maud slacked the rope and I rode up t’ him, so’s to let him loose. “So long,” I says.

“I ain’t done with you!” he answers, gittin’ purple; “I ain’t done with you!”

“Wal, you know where I live,” I says, and loped off, hummin’ the tune the ole cow died on.

When I rid up to the Bar Y ranch-house, here was Billy, gittin’ offen that little bicycle of hisn.

“Cupid,” he says, and he was whiter’n chalk-rock, “is the baby worse? And Rose––”

I pulled him up on to the porch. “Now’s you’ chanst, Billy,” I answers. “Do you’ darnedest!”

Rose opened the door, and her face was as white as hisn. “Aw, Billy!” was all she says.

Then up come that ole fool paw of hern, totin’ the kid. “What’s this?” he ast, mad as a hornet. “And where’s Doc Simpson?”

It was me that spoke. “Doc Simpson’s had a turrible accident,” I answers. “His gasoline plug got to misbehavin’ down the road a piece, and plumb tore her insides out. He got awful shook up, and couldn’t come no further, so–knowin’ the baby was so sick–I went fer Bill.”

“Bill!” says the ole man, disgusted. “Thun-deration!”

But Billy had his tools out a’ready and was a-reachin’ fer the kid. Sewell let him have her–cussin’ like a mule-skinner.

“That’s right,” he says to Rose; “that’s right,–let him massacree her!”

Rose didn’t take no notice. “Aw, Billy!” she kept sayin’, and “Aw, baby!”

Billy got to doin’ things. He picked somethin’ shiny outen his kit and slipped it into a pocket. Next, he lay the kid lookin’ up and put his finger into her mouth.

“See here,” he says to me.

I peeked in where he pointed and seen a reg’lar little hawg-back of gum, red on the two slopes, but whitish in four spots along the ridge, like they’d been a snowfall. Billy grinned, took out that shiny instrument, and give each of them pore little gum buttes the double cross–zip-zip, zip-zip, zip-zip, zip-zip. And, jumpin’ buffaloes! out pops four of the prettiest teeth a man ever seen!

Bugs?–rats!

“Now, a little Bella Donnie,” says Bill, “and the baby’ll be O. K.”

“O. K.!” says Rose. “Aw, Billy!” And such a kissin’!–the baby, a-course.

Ole man Sewell stopped swearin’ a minute. “What’s the matter?” he ast.

“Teeth,” says Billy.

Think of that! Why, the trouble was so clost to Simpson that if it’d been a rattler, it’d ’a’ bit him!

“Teeth!” says the ole man, like he didn’t believe it.

“Come look,” says Billy.

Sewell, he walked over to the baby and stooped down. Then all of a suddent, I seen his jaw go open, and his eyes stick out so far you could ’a’ knocked ’em off with a stick. Then, he got red as a turkey gobbler–and let out a reg’lar war-whoop.

“Look at ’em!” he yelped. “Rose! Rose!–look at ’em! Four all to oncet!” And he give the doc such a wallop on the back that it come nigh to knockin’ him down.

“I know,” I says sarcastic, “but, shucks! a baby ain’t all teeth. This is a mighty puzzlin’ case, and Simpson––”

“Close you’ fly-trap,” says the ole man, “and look at them teeth! Four of a kind–can y’ beat it?”

“Wa-a-al,” I says, sniffin’, “they’s so, so, I reckon, but any kid––”

“Any kid!” yells the ole man, plumb aggervated. And he was just turnin’ round to give me one when–in limps Simpson!

“Mister Sewell,” he says, “I come to make a complaint”–he shook his fist at me–“agin this here ruffian. He––”

“Wow!” roars Sewell. “Don’t you trouble to make no complaints in this house. Here you been a-treatin’ this baby fer bugs when it was just teeth. Say! you ain’t got sense enough to come in when it rains!”

That plumb rattled Simpson. He was gittin’ a reception he didn’t reckon on. But he tried t’ keep up his game.

“This cow-boy here is responsible fer damages to my auto,” he says. “The dashboard’s smashed into matches, the tumblin’-rods is broke, the spark-condenser’s kaflummuxed, and the hull blamed business is skew-gee. This man was actin’ in you’ behalf, and if he don’t pay, I’ll sue you.”

“Sue?” says Sewell; “sue? You go guess again! You send in you’ bill, that’s what you do. You ain’t earned nothin’–but, by jingo, it’s worth money just to git shet of such a dog-goned shyster as you. Git.”

And with that, out goes Mister Bugs.

Then, grandpaw, he turns round to the baby again, plumb took up with them four new nippers. “Cluck, cluck,” he says like a chicken, and pokes the kid under the chin. Over one shoulder, he says to Billy, “And, Trowbridge, you can make out you’ bill, too.”

Billy didn’t answer nothin’. Just went over to a table, pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil, and begun t’ write. Pretty soon, he got up and come back.

“Here, Mister Sewell,” he says.

I was right byside the ole man, and–couldn’t help it–I stretched to read what Billy’d writ. And this was what it was:

“Mister Zach Sewell, debtor to W. A. Trowbridge, fer medical services–the hand of one Rose Andrews in marriage.”

Sewell, he read the paper over and over, turnin’ all kinds of colours. And Silly and me come blamed nigh chokin’ from holdin’ our breaths. Rose was lookin’ up at us, and at her paw, too, turrible anxious. As fer that kid, it was a-kickin’ its laigs into the air and gurglin’ like a bottle.

Fin’lly, the ole man handed the paper back. “Doc,” he says, “Rose is past twenty-one, and not a’ idjit. Also, the kid is hern. So, bein’ this bill reads the way it does, mebbe you’d better hand it t’ her. If she don’t think it’s too steep a figger––”

Billy took the paper and give it over to Rose. When she read it, her face got all blushy; and happy, too, I could see that.

“Rose!” says Billy, holdin’ out his two arms to her.

I took a squint through the winda at the scenery–and heerd a sound like a cow pullin’ its foot outen the mud.

“Rose,” goes on Billy, “I’ll be as good as I know how to you.”

When I turned round again, here was ole man Sewell standin’ in the middle of the floor, lookin’ back and forth from Rose and Billy to the kid–like it’d just struck him that he was goin’ t’ lose his gal and the baby and all them teeth. And if ever a man showed that he was helpless and jealous and plumb hurt, why, that was him. Next, here he was a-gazin’ at me with a queer shine in his eyes–almost savage. And say! it got me some nervous.

“Seems Mister Cupid Lloyd is a-runnin’ things ’round this here ranch-house,” he begun slow, like he was holdin’ in his mad.

I–wal, I just kinda stood there, and swallered oncet ’r twicet, and tried t’ grin. (Didn’t know nothin’ t’ say, y’ savvy, that’d be likely t’ hit him just right.)

“So Cupid’s gone and done it again!” he goes on. “How accommodatin’! Haw!” And he give one of them short, sarcastic laughs.

“Wal, just let me tell you,” he continues, steppin’ closter, “that I, fer one, ain’t got no use fer a feller that’s allus a-stickin’ in his lip.”

“Sewell,” I says, “no feller likes to–that’s a cinch. But oncet in a while it’s plumb needful.”

“It is, is it? And I s’pose this is one of them cases. Wal, Mister Cupid, all I can say is this: The feller that sticks in his lip allus gits into trouble.”

Sometimes, them words of hisn come back to me. Mebbe I’ll be feelin’ awful good-natured, and be a-laughin’ and talkin’. Of a suddent, up them words’ll pop, and the way he said ’em, and all. And even if it’s right warm weather, why, I shiver, yas, ma’am. The fetter that sticks in his lip allus gits into trouble–nothin’ was ever said truer’n that!

“And,” the ole man goes on again, a little bit hoarse by now, “I can feel you’ trouble a-comin’. So far, you been lucky. But it cain’t last–it cain’t last. You know what it says in the Bible? (Mebbe it ain’t in the Bible, but that don’t matter.) It says, ‘Give a fool a rope and he’ll hang hisself.’ And one of these times you’ll play Cupid just oncet too many. What’s more, the smarty that can allus bring other folks t’gether cain’t never manage t’ hitch hisself.”

I’d been keepin’ still ’cause I didn’t want they should be no hard feelin’s ’twixt us. But that last remark of hisn kinda got my dander up.

“Aw, I don’t know,” I answers; “when it comes my own time, I don’t figger t’ have much trouble.”

Wal, sir, the old man flew right up. His face got the colour of sand-paper, and he brung his two hands t’gether clinched, so’s I thought he’d plumb crack the bones. “Haw!” (That laugh again–bitter’n gall.) “Mister Cupid Lloyd, you just wait.” And out he goes.

“Cupid,” says Billy, “I’m turrible sorry. Seems, somehow, that you’ve got Sewell down on y’ account of me––”

“That’s all right, Doc,” I answers; “I don’t keer. It mocks nix oudt, as Dutchy ’d say.” And I shook hands with him and Rose, and kissed the baby.

It mocks nix oudt–that’s what I said. Wal, how was I t’ know then, that I’d made a’ enemy of the one man that, later on, I’d be willin’ t’ give my life t’ please, almost?–how was I t’ know?