“Bully fer you!” Mace answers. “It’ll be good riddance of bad rubbish. They’re too gally.” (Somethin’ like that, anyhow.) “Learn ’em to act like they was civylised. But, say, Mrs. Bridger, you–you ain’t a-goin’ to give the rinky-dink to the Sheriff?”
“Mister Bergin,” answers the widda, “ain’t bothered me none.” (Mace was shore they was tears in her eyes.)
“Aw–haw!” I says, when the little gal tole me. I savvied.
That same afternoon, whilst the widda was a-settin’ on the shady side of the house, sewin’ on carpet-rags, up come Sam Barnes. (It was Monday.)
“Mrs. Bridger,” he begun, “I’m a-goin’ to ast you to think over what I said to you last week. I don’t want to be haidstrong, but I’d like to git a ’yas’ outen you.”
“Mister Barnes,” she says. “I’m feard I cain’t say yas. I ain’t thinkin’ of marryin’. But if I was, it’d be to a man that’s–that’s big, and tall, and has blue eyes.” And she looked out at the sand-pile, and sighed.
“Wal,” says Sam, “I reckon I don’t fit specifications.” And he hiked fer town.
He was plumb huffy when he tole me about it. “Fer a woman,” he says, “that’s got to look after herself, and has a kid on her hands to boot, she’s got more airs’n a windmill.”
Next!
That was Chub.