"Holy Smoke, Bruce, you can't wear an ordinary cowpuncher hat with them varnished shoes an' that there necktie an' that dude suit!"
"I guess I'll have to, or go bareheaded."
Tommy looked at him earnestly for he thought that this oversight mattered, and his simple, loyal heart was touched.
"Never mind, Bruce," he consoled. "It'll be all right, prob'ly. She won't—"
"You go out and make me a crown of mistletoe, Tommy. Why, she wouldn't like me not to be somethin' of my regular, everyday self. She'll like these clothes, but she'll like my old hat, too!"
Tommy seemed to be relieved.
"Yes, maybe she will," he agreed. "She's kinda sensible, Bruce. She ain't th' kind of a woman to jump her weddin' 'cause of a hat."
Bayard, in a sudden ecstasy of animal spirits, picked the small cowboy up in his arms and tossed him toward the ceiling, as if he were a child, and stopped only when Tommy wound his arms about his neck in a strangling clasp.
"Le'me down, an' le'me show you my outfit!" he cried. "Don't get stuck on yourself an' think you're goin' to be th' only city feller at this party!"
Breathlessly Bayard laughed as he put him down and followed him to the bunk where he had slept with his war-bag for a pillow. Tommy seated himself, lifted the sack to his lap and, with fingers to his lips for silence, untied the strings.