“Cupid,”–it was Hairoil, and he put a’ arm acrosst my shoulder–“hope you fergive me fer puttin’ up that shootin’-scrape.”
“Why, a-course, I do.”
Then, whisperin’, “She was the gal I tole you about that time, Cupid: The one I said I’d marry you off to.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“I do. So–the best kind of luck, ole socks!”
“Aw, thank y’, Hairoil.”
Next, pushin’ his way through the bunch, I seen Billy Trowbridge, somethin’ white in his hand. “Cupid,” he says,–into my ear, so’s the others couldn’t ketch it–“if the time ever comes when the little gal makes a big success back there in Noo York, ’r if the time comes when she’s thinkin’ some of startin’ home t’ Oklahomaw again, open this. It’s that other letter of Up-State’s.”
I clumb the steps of the end car and looked round me. On the one side was the mesquite, all black now, and quiet. Say! I hated t’ think it didn’t stretch all the way East! Here, on the other side was the deepot, and Dutchy’s, and the bunk-house, and the feed-shop, and Silverstein’s, and the post-office––
“So long, Cupid!”–it was all-t’gether, gals and fellers, too. Then, “Yee-ee-ee-oop!”–the ole cow-punch yell.