"George Hoover's been goin' with Bessie Slayback ever sence McKinley beat Bryan in 'ninety-six. Swore he'd never git married till we had another democratic president. We've had one fer more'n four years and now he says he never dreamed there'd be another one, so he didn't think it was worth while to save up enough to git married on. You don't happen to have a bid there fer his weddin', have you, Anderson? That would be too much to expect, I guess."
"How old do you make out Bessie is, Alf?" asked Mr. Crow, shuffling the envelopes until he found the one he wanted. He removed the card, printed neatly by the Tinkletown Banner Press, and squinted at it through his spectacles.
"Forty-nine," said Alf, promptly. "Twenty-sixth of last January."
"Well, poor old George'll have to do his settin' in Sofer's store after the third o' June," said the other, chuckling. "She has threw him over, as my daughter would say."
"What's that?"
"Yep. Bessie's goin' to be married next Sunday to Charlie Smith."
"Fer the Lord's sake!" gasped Alf. "How c'n that be? Charlie's got a wife an' three grown children."
"'Tain't old Charlie. It's young Charlie," said Anderson, looking hard at the invitation. "'Charles Elias Smith, Junior,' it says."
Alf was speechless. He merely stared while the town marshal made mental calculations.
"She's twenty-six years older'n he is, Alf."