“They’re a darn fine lot of boys, but I wish they wouldn’t git so worked up. Where’s Emily?”
Emily, who was standing in the doorway, ogling him unseen, came forward.
“There’s something to buy a dress with, and see here, don’t get a draughtboard pattern. If there’s any money over, buy soap—scented soap.”
Emily’s eyes almost fell from her head at the sight of the fifty-dollar note. She rubbed her hands down her dress and took it. Jim had grabbed the heavy bag and was half-way down the stairs before she could summon enough breath to murmur the incessant refrain, “Ain’t he jest wonderful!”
At the door Jim was grabbed by a dozen hefty pairs of hands and hoisted on to shoulders. One man took the big bag, and with remarkable skill flung it clean on the top of the waiting coach, 11 much to Rob’s disgust. The hurtling missile came down like a thunderbolt, and nearly went through the roof.
“Don’t get fresh, boys,” pleaded Jim. “These are my Sunday clothes.”
They ran him twice up the main street, yelling and whooping like a pack of wild Indians. A queer awry figure stuck its head from the window of a tumble-down shop and, seeing the cause of the disturbance, shook his fist and yelled:
“The sheriff ought to be fired, to allow ...”
A shot from a revolver shivered his shop-window to atoms, and a ten-dollar note was flung at him. He slammed down the window, realizing that discretion was the better part of valor. The high-spirited men went on their way, rousing the whole population as they progressed. After about twenty minutes of these capers they reached the hotel again. Jim was praying that the business was over. He fought his way to the ground, but was immediately hoisted on to the top of Rob’s coach.
“Give over, boys ...”