“Not a feelin’, Horacles! How can y’u entertain such an idea?” Scipio shook him by the hand and smiled like an angel at him—a fallen angel. “What’s the use of me keepin’ this store open to-morrow? Nobody’ll be here to spend a cent. Guess I’ll shut up, Horacles, and come watch the Injuns all shoppin’ like Christmas over to your place.”
The Virginian sustained his indifference, and added to Scipio’s pleasure. But during breakfast the Virginian broke down.
“Reckon you’re ready to start to-day?” he said.
“Start? Where for?”
“Sunk Creek, y’u fool! Where else?”
“I’m beyond y’u! I’m sure beyond y’u for once!” screeched Scipio, beating his crutch on the floor.
“Oh, eat your grub, y’u fool.”
“I’d have told y’u last night,” said Scipio, remorselessly, “only y’u were so awful anxious not to be told.”
As the Virginian drove him across the sage-brush, not to Sunk Creek, but to the new store, the suspense was once more too much for the Southerner’s curiosity. He pulled up the horses as the inspiration struck him.
“You’re going to tell the Indians you’ll under-sell him!” he declared, over-hastily.