"No idee'tall." Pete surrendered his head to Nat's ministrations. "'Nd I hope y' won't never have."
"But I'm going to be married, Pete."
The sheriff assimilated this information and became abruptly intractable. He jerked his head away and swung round in his chair to argue the matter.
"Oh, no!" he expostulated. "Don't, Mish'r Duncan. Don't never do it. Take warnin' from me."
"But I'm engaged, Pete."
"Maksh no diff'runsh—break it off." His voice rose to a howl of alarm. "F'r Gaw's sake, break it off!—now, before it's too late! Do anythin' rather'n that: drink—lie—steal—murder—c'mit suicide—don't care what—only keep single!" "Here," said Duncan, laughing, "sit back there and let me'tend to your head." He began to wash the wound with the peroxide. "There: that'll sting a bit, but not long.... But suppose, Pete, I'd get a lot of money by marrying?"
"No matter how mush y'get, 'tain't enough!"
"I'm inclined to think you're about right, Pete."
"You bet I'm right. I'm married 'nd I know."
Nat finished dressing the cut, smoothed down the ends of the adhesive tape, and stood back. "That's all right, now. Go home, wash your face, and sleep it off. Let me see you sober in the morning."