“Onless he DID know it and it was that what made him so sorrowful when they first came. B'gosh! I never thought o' that,” said Wynbrook, with one of his characteristic sudden illuminations.
“Well, gentlemen, whether he did or not,” said the barkeeper stoutly, “he must never know that WE know it. No, not if the old gal cleans out my bar and takes the last scad in the camp.”
And to this noble sentiment they responded as one man.
How far they would have been able to carry out that heroic resolve was never known, for an event occurred which eclipsed its importance. One morning at breakfast Mrs. Pottinger fixed a clouded eye upon Prosper.
“Prosper,” she said, with fell deliberation “you ought to know you have a sister.”
“Yes, ma'am,” returned Prosper, with that meekness with which he usually received these family disclosures.
“A sister,” continued the lady, “whom you haven't seen since you were a child; a sister who for family reasons has been living with other relatives; a girl of nineteen.”
“Yea, ma'am,” said Prosper humbly. “But ef you wouldn't mind writin' all that down on a bit o' paper—ye know my short memory! I would get it by heart to-day in the gulch. I'd have it all pat enough by night, ef,” he added, with a short sigh, “ye was kalkilatin' to make any illusions to it when the boys are here.”
“Your sister Augusta,” continued Mrs. Pottinger, calmly ignoring these details, “will be here to-morrow to make me a visit.”
But here the worm Prosper not only turned, but stood up, nearly upsetting the table. “It can't be did, ma'am it MUSTN'T be did!” he said wildly. “It's enough for me to have played this camp with YOU—but now to run in”—