"I'm in a jam, and you can't help me."
"Mebbe not, but it might do some good to talk it all out of your system. You know the number, Frank."
"You mean well, old-timer," said the Kid; "and your heart's in the right place, but you—you don't understand."
"No, and how can I 'less you open up and tell me what's the matter? If you've done anything wrong——"
"Forget it!" said the Kid shortly. "You're barking up the wrong tree. I'm trying to figure out how to do right!"...
That night the door of Old Man Curry's tack room swung gently open, and the aged horseman, looking up from his well-thumbed copy of the Old Testament, nodded to an expected visitor.
"Set down, Frank, and take a load off your feet," said he hospitably. "I sort of thought you'd come."
For a time they talked horse, usually an engrossing subject, but after a bit the conversation flagged. The Kid rolled many cigarettes which he tossed away unfinished, and the old man waited in silence for that which he knew could not long be delayed. It came at last in the form of a startling question. "Old-timer," said the Kid abruptly, "you—you never got married, did you?"
Old Man Curry blinked a few times, passed his fingers through his beard, and stared at his questioner. "Why, no, son." The old man spoke slowly, and it was plain that he was puzzled. "Why, no; I never did."
"Did you ever think of it—seriously, I mean?"