“Oh, Chester!”
As though he had been bee-stung the little man pivoted on his heels. His chaps hung floppingly about his short legs; his blue shirt was open halfway down his sunburnt chest; his pistol holster flapped against his flank; his wide white hat was upon the back of his head; his neck was tanned brown; his face was red and sweaty; his large outstanding ears were burnt a bright, translucent crimson; his hands were dirty—but it was Chester. For one moment, contemplating the accusing, brimming eyes of the lady, he flinched and shrank as one reared amid the refining influences of Japonica Avenue under such circumstances as these [202] might well have flinched, might well have shrunk. Then he stiffened and in all visible regards was again Old Chesty, the roughrider.
“Hello, Gertrude,” he said, just like that.
“Oh, Chester!” she wailed the words in louder key even than before.
Like the gentleman that he was, the barkeeper turned squarely round and began polishing the valve of a beer pump with the palm of his moist hand. With a glance which swiftly travelled from one to another the tall cowboy gathered up his fellows and speedily they withdrew through the swinging doors, passing the lady with faces averted, profoundly actuated all by considerations inspired of their delicate outdoor sensibilities. Except for the detective person, husband and wife, to all intents and purposes, stood alone, face to face.
“Oh, Chester,” she repeated for the third time, and now forgivingly her arms were outstretched. “Oh, Chester, how could you do it?”
“Do what, Gertrude?”
“Run away and l-l-leave me. What did you do it for?”
“Three dollars a day,” he answered simply. There was no flippancy in the reply, but merely directness.
“Oh, Chester, to give up your home—your position—me—for that! Oh, what madness possessed you! Chester, come back home.”