“The best thing you can do, Mister Cupid,” growls Bergin (with a few cuss words throwed in), “is to mind-you’-own-business.”
“All right,” I answers cheerful. “I heerd y’. But, I never could see why you fellers are so down on me when I advise marryin’. Take my word fer it, Sheriff, any man’s a heap better off with a nice wife to look after his shack, and keep it slicked up, and a nice baby ’r two t’ pull his whiskers, and I reckon––”
But Bergin was makin’ fer the freight shed, two-forty.
When I tole Mace what’d passed ’twixt me and the sheriff, she says, “Alec, leave him alone fer a while, and mebbe he’ll look you up. In love affairs, don’t never try t’ drive nobody.”
“But ain’t it funny,” I says (it was lodge night, and we had the porch to ourselves), “–ain’t it funny how dead set some fellers is agin marryin’–the blamed fools! Y’ see, they think that if they don’t hitch up t’ some sweet gal, why, they git ahaid of somebody. It makes me plumb sick!”
“But think of the lucky gal that don’t marry such a yap,” says Mace. “If she was to, by some hook ’r crook, why, he’d throw it up to her fer the balance of his life that she’d ketched him like a rat in a trap.”
“I never could git no such notion about you,” I says; “aw, little gal, we’ll be so happy, you and me, won’t we, honey,––”
Wal, to continue with the Bridger story: You recollect what I said about that kid needin’ a father? Wal, say! if he’d ’a’ wanted one, he shore could ’a’ picked from plenty of candi-dates. Why, ’fore long, ev’ry bach in town had his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger–that’s straight. All other subjects of polite conversation was fergot byside the subject of the widda. Sam Barnes was in love with her, and went ’round with that red face of hisn lookin’ exac’ly like the full moon when you see it through a sandstorm. Chub Flannagan was in love with her, too, and ’d sit by the hour on Silverstein’s front porch, his pop eyes shut up tight, a-rockin’ hisself back’ards and for’ards, back’ards and for-’ards, and a-hummin’. Then, they was Dutchy’s brother, August. Aw, he had it bad. And took t’ music, just like Chub, yas, ma’am. Why, that feller spent hours a-knockin’ the wind outen a’ pore accordion. And next come Frank Curry–haid over heels, too, mean as he was, and to hear him talk you’d ’a’ bet they wasn’t nothin’ he wouldn’t ’a’ done fer Mrs. Bridger. But big talk’s cheap, and he was small potatoes, you bet, and few in the hill.
Wal, one after the other, them four fellers blacked they boots, wet they hair down as nice and shiny as Hairoil’s, and went to see the widda. She ast ’em in, a-course, and was neighbourly; fed ’em, too, if it was nigh meal-time, and acted, gen’ally speakin’, as sweet as pie.
But she treated ’em all alike. And they knowed it. Consequently, in order so’s all of ’em would git a’ even chanst, and so’s they wouldn’t be no gun-play account of one man tryin’ to cut another out by goin’ to see her twicet to the other man’s oncet, the aforesaid boys fixed up a calendar. Sam got Monday, Curry, Wednesday, Dutch August, Friday, and Chub, Sunday afternoons. That tickled Chub. He owns a liv’ry-stable, y’ savvy, and ev’ry week he hitched up a rig and took the widda and her kid fer a buggy ride.