“I should say not,” replied Bridge. “She's a perfect queen from New York City; but, Billy, she's not for me. What she did was prompted by a generous heart. She couldn't care for me, Billy. Her father is a wealthy man—he could have the pick of the land—of many lands—if she cared to marry. You don't think for a minute she'd want a hobo, do you?”
“You can't most always tell,” replied Billy, a trifle sadly. “I knew such a queen once who would have chosen a mucker, if he'd a-let her. You're stuck on her, ol' man?”
“I'm afraid I am, Billy,” Bridge admitted; “but what's the use? Let's forget it. Oh, say, is this the horse I let you take the night you robbed the bank?”
“Yes,” said Billy; “same little pony, an' a mighty well-behaved one, too. Why?”
“It's hers,” said Bridge.
“An' she wants it back?”
“She didn't say so; but I'd like to get it to her some way,” said Bridge.
“You ride it back when you go,” suggested Billy.
“But I can't go back,” said Bridge; “it was Grayson, the foreman, who made it so hot for me I had to leave. He tried to arrest me and send me to Villa.”
“What for?” asked Billy.