Wallie shoved his Christmas dinner in the oven and slammed the door upon it, stoked the fire lavishly, then fell upon the washboard and rubbed furiously that he might be done the sooner. At intervals he dashed to the window, half afraid to look lest the rider had changed his mind and gone in another direction.
But no, he kept coming, and there was something in the way he sat his horse which made him think it was Pinkey.
And Pinkey it was, brilliant as a rainbow in orange chaps, red flannel shirt, and a buckskin waistcoat. His coat tied behind the cantle suggested that he either had become overheated or at only twelve below zero had not yet felt the need of it. His horse was snorting steam like a locomotive and icicles of frozen breath were pendent from its nostrils.
Wallie stood in the door, suds to the elbow and his hands steaming, waiting to receive him.
His voice trembled as he greeted him:
"I never was so glad to see anybody in my life, Pinkey."
"This is onct I know you ain't lyin'. Got anything to eat? I'm starvin'. I been comin' sence daylight."
"I got something special," Wallie replied, mysteriously. "Tie your horse to the haystack. I'll hurry things up a little."
Pinkey returned shortly and sniffed as he entered:
"It smells good, anyhow. There's something homelike about onions. What you cookin'?"