Hairoil, he stood up–quick, so that I come nigh fallin’ offen my end of the truck. “But you are fer some other pore cuss,” he says. “You as good as owned up.”
“Yas,” I answers, “I are. But the gent in question wouldn’t want you should worry about him. All that’s a-keepin’ him anxious is that mebbe he won’t git his gal.”
“Alec,” Hairoil goes on,–turrible solemn, he was–“I have decided that this town has had just about it’s fill of this Cupid business of yourn–and I’m a-goin’ t’ stop it.”
I snickered. “Y’ are?” I ast. “Wal, how?”
“By marryin’ you off. When you’re hitched up you’self, you won’t be so all-fired anxious t’ git other pore fellers into the traces.”
“That good news,” I says. “Who’s the for-tunate gal you’ve picked fer me?”
“Never you mind,” answers Hairoil. “She’s a new gal, and she’ll be along next week.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Is she pretty! Say! Pretty ain’t no name fer it! She’s got big grey eyes, with long, black, sassy winkers, and brown hair that’s all kinda curly over the ears. Then her cheeks is pink, and she’s got the cutest mouth a man ’most ever seen.”
Wal, a-course, I thought he was foolin’. (And mebbe he was–then.) A gal like that fer me!–a fine, pretty gal fer such a knock-kneed, slab-sided son-of-a-gun as me? I just couldn’t swaller that.