“I’m so glad,” says the widda, kinda clappin’ her hands. “I can make enough to support Willie and me easy. And it’ll seem awful fine to have a little home all my own! I ain’t never lived in the country afore, but I know it’ll be lovely to raise chickens. In pictures, the little bits of ones is allus so cunnin’.”
Wal, I didn’t answer her. What could I ’a’ said? And Bergin?–he come nigh pullin’ his cow-lick clean out.
By this time, that little kid had his bread-basket full. So he clumb down outen his chair and come ’round to the sheriff. Bergin took him on to his lap. The kid lay back and shut his eyes. His maw smiled over at Bergin. Bergin smiled down at the kid.
“Wal, folks,” I begun, gittin’ up, “I’m turrible sorry, but I got to tear myself away. Promised to help the Bar Y boys work a herd.”
“Cupid!” It was the sheriff, voice kinda croaky.
“Good-bye fer just now, Mrs. Bridger,” (I pretended not t’ hear him.) “So long, Bergin.”
And I skedaddled.
Two minutes afterwards here they come outen the eatin’-house, the widda totin’ a basket and the sheriff totin’ the kid. I watched ’em through the crack of Silverstein’s front door, and I hummed that good ole song:
| “He never keers to wander from his own fireside; He never keers to ramble ’r to roam. With his baby on his knee, He’s as happy as can be-e-e, Cause they’s no-o-o place like home, sweet home.” |
When I got back to the Bar Y, I was dead leary about tellin’ Mace that I had half a mind t’ git Bergin married off. ’Cause, y’ see, I’d been made fun of so much fer my Cupid business; and I hated t’ think of doin’ somethin’ she wouldn’t like. But, fin’lly, I managed t’ spunk up sufficient, and described Mrs. Bridger and the kid, and said what I’d like t’ do fer the sheriff.