It was more than a year later that in the bar-room of the Mariposa Hotel a hand was laid upon my sleeve. I looked up. It was Johnson.
He drew from his pocket a Spanish dollar. “I reckoned,” he said, cheerfully, “I'd run again ye somewhar some time. My old woman told me to give ye that when I did, and say that she 'didn't keep no hotel.' But she allowed she'd keep the letter, and has spelled it out to the chillern.”
Here was the opportunity I had longed for to touch Johnson's pride and affection in the brave but unprotected girl. “I want to talk to you about Miss Johnson,” I said, eagerly.
“I reckon so,” he said, with an exasperating smile. “Most fellers do. But she ain't Miss Johnson no more. She's married.”
“Not to that big chap over from Ten Mile Mills?” I said breathlessly.
“What's the matter with HIM,” said Johnson. “Ye didn't expect her to marry a nobleman, did ye?”
I said I didn't see why she shouldn't—and believed that she HAD.