“I'm afraid so.”
“She's riding straddle!” exclaimed the delighted Ogden, adjusting his glasses. “Why do you object to their union being holy?”
I explained that my friend Lin had lately married an eating-house lady precipitately and against my advice.
“I suppose he knew his business,” observed Ogden.
“That's what he said to me at the time. But you ought to see her—and know him.”
Ogden was going to. Husband and wife were coming our way. Husband nodded to me his familiar offish nod, which concealed his satisfaction at meeting with an old friend. Wife did not look at me at all. But I looked at her, and I instantly knew that Lin—the fool!—had confided to her my disapproval of their marriage. The most delicate specialty upon earth is your standing with your old friend's new wife.
“Good-day, Mr. McLean,” said the Governor to the cow-puncher on his horse.
“How're are yu', doctor,” said Lin. During his early days in Wyoming the Governor, when as yet a private citizen, had set Mr. McLean's broken leg at Drybone. “Let me make yu' known to Mrs. McLean,” pursued the husband.
The lady, at a loss how convention prescribes the greeting of a bride to a Governor, gave a waddle on the pony's back, then sat up stiff, gazed haughtily at the air, and did not speak or show any more sign than a cow would under like circumstances. So the Governor marched cheerfully at her, extending his hand, and when she slightly moved out toward him her big, dumb, red fist, he took it and shook it, and made her a series of compliments, she maintaining always the scrupulous reserve of the cow.
“I say,” Ogden whispered to me while Barker was pumping the hand of the flesh image, “I'm glad I came.” The appearance of the puncher-bridegroom also interested Ogden, and he looked hard at Lin's leather chaps and cartridge-belt and so forth. Lin stared at the New-Yorker, and his high white collar and good scarf. He had seen such things quite often, of course, but they always filled him with the same distrust of the man that wore them.