"When I think of the way a young feller cares for a girl, I want to laugh," he said. "Pshaw, it's all mush. Nothing but talk, and those kids make the talk do instead of work. And if it ain't mush, it's wind. I tell you what—a man and a woman don't rightly care for each other, Dan, until they're married."
I stared at him. "Is that so? Well, well. Suppose they only wake up then and find they don't care at all. That would be fierce."
"Sure," he answered gravely. "It's a gamble. Why don't you take a chance?"
"That's my business."
"Well, you needn't get all swelled up about it. Hetty was saying to me only the other day—say, what're you so red in the face about?"
"You and Hetty stick to housekeeping and let me run my own affairs," I retorted hotly. Their presumption passed all bounds. "Whenever a man's friends get married, they begin picking out a girl for him right off. I suppose misery likes company."
Johnson chuckled and said: "All right, let's forget it." It was very apparent in what channel his thoughts moved, however, for he would keep turning on me a broad smile.
"What good are bachelors, anyhow?" he demanded. "They'd ought for to tax 'em heavy."
"You talk like a mothers' meeting, Lafe."
"Well, I've got the rights of this thing, anyhow. Bachelors make me think of what Frank Hastings said once about a mule—up on the Plains, this was—'without pride of ancestry or hope of posterity,' Frank said."