“A heap shot up.”
“He’s an editor,” warned Mr. Masterson, “and going to start a paper. Mind, you mustn’t hurt him!”
“Hurt him!” retorted Cimarron Bill. “If I do I hope to go afoot the balance of my life—I do, shore!”
Mr. Wright returned from the Long Branch, bringing Mr. Short. Higginson Peabody mentioned the adventures of his hat.
“It’s my fault,” said Mr. Wright; “I’d ought to have told you. That breed of war-bonnet is ag’inst the rules of our set.”
“That’s right,” coincided Mr. Short; “only sooicides wear ’em in Dodge.”
“We’ll fix it,” observed Mr. Wright, who noticed that Higginson Peabody looked cast down. “What’s the size of your head?”
“Seven and an eighth,” returned Higginson Peabody, doubtfully.
“Seven and an eighth!” repeated Mr. Wright: “It’ll grow in Dodge. See if it ain’t two sizes larger in a month.”
Mr. Wright sent over to that mart whereof he was proprietor, and presently a pearl-gray sombrero appeared.