A carriage dashed up, driven by a tardy and solicitous coachman.
“Will you kindly open the door for me?” asked the lady. Corny assisted her to enter, and took off his hat. The escort was beginning to scramble up from the sidewalk.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Corny, “if he’s your man.”
“He’s no man of mine,” said the lady. “Perhaps he—but there’s no chance of his being now. Drive home, Michael. If you care to take this—with my thanks.”
Three red roses were thrust out through the carriage window into Corny’s hand. He took them, and the hand for an instant; and then the carriage sped away.
Corny gathered his foe’s hat and began to brush the dust from his clothes.
“Come along,” said Corny, taking the other man by the arm.
His late opponent was yet a little dazed by the hard knocks he had received. Corny led him carefully into a saloon three doors away.
“The drinks for us,” said Corny, “me and my friend.”
“You’re a queer feller,” said the lady’s late escort—“lick a man and then want to set ’em up.”