Into this tent they were both hustled, and Phonograph, as master of ceremonies, gave orders for the preparations.
“You, Dry-Creek and Jimmy, and Ben and Taller—hump yourselves to the wildwood and rustle flowers for the blow-out—mesquite’ll do—and get that Spanish dagger blossom at the corner of the horse corral for the bride to pack. You, Limpy, get out that red and yaller blanket of your’n for Miss Sally’s skyirt. Marquis, you’ll do ’thout fixin’; nobody don’t ever look at the groom.”
During their absurd preparation, the two principals were left alone for a few moments in the tent. The Marquis suddenly showed wild perturbation.
“This foolishness must not go on,” he said, turning to Miss Sally a face white in the light of the lantern, hanging to the ridge-pole.
“Why not?” said the cook, with an amused smile. “It’s fun for the boys; and they’ve always let you off pretty light in their frolics. I don’t mind it.”
“But you don’t understand,” persisted the Marquis, pleadingly. “That man is county judge, and his acts are binding. I can’t—oh, you don’t know—”
The cook stepped forward and took the Marquis’s hands.
“Sally Bascom,” he said, “I KNOW!”
“You know!” faltered the Marquis, trembling. “And you—want to—”
“More than I ever wanted anything. Will you—here come the boys!”