Mollified, she answered, "What had you thought of doing?"
No one had thought of anything, but they were all loathe to admit it, so each one cudgelled his brains vigorously.
"Say, so long as we busted up the weddin'," gasped Bronco, "we'll chip in and refund her fare—ship her back in a box car—I mean—pay her way to whar she come from. Won't we, boys?"
"Sure!" was the chorus.
Now that the ice had been broken, the situation was less strained.
"Derned—hanged—! Oh, say, Mrs. Green! We'll do any damned thing you say, to put an end to this yer doggone millin';" floundered Holy, struggling to be intelligible without profanity. "We never figgered it would buffalo no one but ol' Walton, and to Hell—Oh, shucks! I mean he don't count noways!"
Holy paused and wiped his perspiring face with a red cotton handkerchief that was not more vivid than his own complexion. His effort had been heroic. Mrs. Green recognized it, and her smile refused to be suppressed longer. A dimple sneaked into her cheek. The boys breathed more freely. Dimples didn't frighten them very badly, unless one of them was alone with it.
"Sit down," suggested Mrs. Green, "and let's talk it over together. Maybe we can work out the trouble." Roarer, Bronco and Holy deposited themselves cautiously on edges of chairs, their huge hands hanging pathetically helpless between their leather-clad knees. Their hats decorated the floor and they were conscious of tousled heads.
"You see it all came through the child being delicate. Lung trouble, the doctor said, and Arizona the only hope."
"He sure does look peaked," Bronco hastened to agree. If Mrs. Green had said the King of England was hiding in the kitchen pantry at that moment, Bronco would have backed that statement with his very life.