"Here she is!" yelled Sage-brush, as the door opened and the astonished Echo faced those she loved and liked.
Echo made a pretty picture framed in the doorway. She wore her riding-habit of olive-green—from the hem of which peeped her soft boots. Her hat, broad, picturesque, typical of the Southwest, had slipped backward, forming a background for her pretty face. An amused smile played about the corners of her mouth.
"Well, what is it?" she smiled inquiringly.
The group looked at her sheepishly. No one wanted to answer her question.
"What's the matter?" she resumed. "You're herded up like a bunch of cows in a norther."
Sage-brush began gravely to explain. He got only as far as: "This yere bein' a birthday," when Echo interrupted him: "Oh! then it's a birthday-party?"
Once stopped, Sage-brush could not get started again. He cleared his throat with more emphasis than politeness; striking the attitude of an orator, with one hand upraised and the other on his hip, he hemmed and hawed until beads of perspiration trickled down his temples.
Again he nerved himself for the ordeal.
"Mebbe," he gasped.
Then he opened and closed his mouth, froglike, several times, taking long, gulping breaths. At last, looking helplessly about him, he shouted: "Oh, shucks! you tell her, Jack." He pushed him toward Echo. Jack rested his hand on the table and began: "We've a surprise for you—that is, the boys have—"