“She seems to be pressing her suit, son; you better name the day,” one of the loungers suggested.
“The blamed thing ain’t worth twenty-five dollars,” the young man from the East declared. A conspicuous silence followed. It seemed to irritate the owner of the hat that no one would defend it. “It ain’t worth it,” he repeated.
“I think you allowed you was out here for your health?” the big Texan, who had returned from the corral, inquired.
“Betcher life,” swaggered the man with the hat, “N’York’s good enough for me.”
“But”—and the Texan smiled sweetly—“the man who sold you the hat ain’t out here for his.”
Judith hid her head and stamped letters. The boys were suspiciously quiet, then some one began to chant:
“The devil examined the desert well,
And made up his mind ’twas too dry for hell;
He put up the prices his pockets to swell,
And called it a—heal-th resort.”
The postmistress waited for the last note of the chorus to die away, and read from a package she held in her hand—“‘Mrs. Henry Lee, Deer Lodge, Wyoming.’ Well, Henry, here’s a wedding-present, I guess. And my congratulations, though you’ve hardly treated us well in never saying a word.”
The unfortunate Henry, who hadn’t even a sweetheart, and who was noted as the shyest man in the “Goose Creek Outfit,” had to submit to the mock congratulations of every man in the room and promise to set up the drinks later.
“I never felt we’d keep you long, son; them golden curls seldom gets a chance to ripen singly.”