But fer a week afore that social, they was a turrible smell of gasoline outside the sittin’-room of the Bar Y ranch-house. That’s ’cause Doctor Bugs come out ev’ry day–to fetch a Goldstone woman from the up-train. (That blamed sulky of hisn ’d been stuck t’gether with flour paste by now, y’ savvy, and was in apple-pie order.) After the woman ’d git to the ranch-house, why, the organ ’d strike up. Then you could hear Macie’s voice–doin’, “do, ray, me.” Next, she’d break loose a-singin’. And pretty soon the doc and the woman ’d go.
Wal, I didn’t like it. Y’ see, I’ve allus noticed that if a city feller puts hisself out fer you a hull lot, he expects you t’ give him a drink, ’r vote fer him, ’r loan him some money. And why was Bugsey botherin’ t’ make so many trips to the Bar Y? I knowed what it was. It was just like Hairoil ’d said–he wanted my Macie.
One night, I says to her, “What’s that Goldstone woman doin’ out here so much, honey?”
“Givin’ me music lessons,” she answers.
“I know,” I says. “But you don’t need no lessons. You sing good enough t’ suit me right now.”
“Wal, I don’t sing good enough t’ suit myself. And bein’ as I’m on that program––”
“Wal, just the same,” I cut in, “I don’t like that Simpson hangin’ ’round here.”
“Alec,” she come back, stiffenin’ right up, “it’s my place to say who comes into this ranch-house, and who don’t.”
“But, look a-here! Folks ’ll think you like him better’n you do me.”
“Aw, that’s crazy.”