“I entertains opinions similar,” said Cimarron Bill, who as Aunt Nettie Dawson’s nephew was no mean judge of a tirade.
As Mr. McBride was feeding that pardonable vanity chronicled and flattering himself with a review of the mourning throng, Bobby Gill appeared at the door. Bobby toed in like an Indian or a pigeon, and because he walked on the ball of his foot as does the wolf, he possessed a lurking, spying manner.
Bobby came in, his wool hat held between his fingers, in a tight roll. Being in he began peeping and peering, right and left, and craning over intervening shoulders as though to get a glimpse of the casket. Mr. McBride crossed over to Bobby with a step serious and slow:
“Bobby,” said Mr. McBride, manner gloomly firm, “you an’ Bridget never agreed, an’ you’ll obleege me by hittin’ the street.”
Bobby backed softly out. At the door, as though to vindicate the respectful innocence of his motives, he paused.
“Say, Mack,” he whispered, in mingled apology and reproach, “I only jest wanted to see was she shore dead.”
It wasn’t until late in the evening, when the sad responsibilities of the day had been lifted from his mind, that Mr. McBride became a burden upon the hands of Mr. Masterson. Mr. McBride said that he’d been insulted; the memory of Bridget he averred had met with disrespect. Thereupon he buckled on his six-shooter—which had been laid aside in funeral deference to the day—and announced an intention to hunt down Bobby Gill.
“Come, Mack!” argued Mr. Masterson, soothingly, “it isn’t creditable to you—isn’t creditable to Bridget.”
“But, Bat,” sobbed Mr. McBride, as he half-cocked his Colt’s-45, and sadly revolved the cylinder to make sure that all worked smoothly, “I’ve put up with a heap from Bobby—me and Bridget has—an’ now I’m goin’ to nacherally discontinue him a lot.”
“You oughtn’t to mind old Bobby,” Mr. Masterson insisted. “Everybody knows he’s locoed.”