“We’ll splice first and ast him about it afterwards. And when you’re Mrs. Alec, I’ll git you all the clothes you want.” (Here’s where I clean fergot the advice she give me that time in the sheriff’s case: “In love affairs,” was what she said, “don’t never try t’ drive nobody.”)
“But, Alec,––” she begun.
“Sunday week, Mace,” I says. “We’ll talk about it t’-night.”
But that night Monkey Mike come nigh blowin’ his lungs out; and I waited under the cottonwoods till I was asleep standin’–and no Macie.
Wasn’t it cal’lated t’ make any man lose his temper? Wal, I lost mine. And when we went in town to a party, a night ’r two afterwards, the hull business come to a haid.
I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. But no feller wants t’ see his gal dance with a kettle-faced greaser. I knowed she was goin’ to fer the reason that I seen Mexic go over her way, showin’ his teeth like a badger and lettin’ his cigareet singe the hair on his dirty shaps–shaps, mind y’, at a school-house dance! Then I seen her nod.
Our polka come next. And when we was about half done, I says, “They’s lemonade outside, honey. Let’s git a swig.” But outside I didn’t talk no lemonade. “Did Mexic ast you to dance with him?” I begun.
“Wal, he’s one of our boys,” she answers; “and I’m going to give him a schottische.”
“No, you ain’t,” I come back. “I won’t stand fer it.”
“Yas, I am, Alec Lloyd,”–she spoke determined,–“and please don’t try to boss me.”