Banjo bristled up and growled.
"Hush, you beast!" scolded Jimmy. "You ought to be so full of peace and good-will this here Christmas eve that there wouldn't be room for a single growl in your ugly old hide. I'd be if I could lay teeth on the chaw I'm hankering for. What's the matter with you anyhow?"
With his hand on the dog's head to quiet him, he peered down the dim road. A boy on a shaggy Indian pony was loping towards him.
"Is this Welsh's ranch?" he called. "Then I've got a telegram for somebody. It's addressed mighty queer—just says 'Jimmy, care of Mrs. Clara Welsh.'"
"Well, I'm a—greaser!" was all that Jimmy could ejaculate as he reached for the yellow envelope. He turned it over with growing curiosity. "First telegram I ever got in my life, and me sixty odd years," he muttered.
"There's a dollar charges for delivering it out so far," said the boy. Jimmy's hand went down into his pocket again.
"I'll have to go to the house for it," he said. "You wait."
Then he waited himself. Batty Carson was strolling down the road. It would be easier to apply to him for the loan than to Mrs. Welsh.
"Has the old uncle died and left you a fortune?" laughed Batty, as he handed over the dollar.
"Blamed if I can make out," answered Jimmy, holding the scrap of paper at arms length and squinting at it. "I ain't got my specs. Here! you read it."