"Us?"
"Yes. You'd marry me if I were rich, wouldn't you?"
"No, I wouldn't," Bill declared, firmly. "What's the use to kid you?"
"Why wouldn't you? Are you ashamed of me?"
Bill protested, "Say, what is this you're giving me, the third degree?"
"If I were as rich as—well, as Reindeer Mary, wouldn't you marry me?" Ponatah gazed at the unworthy object of her affections with a yearning that was embarrassing, and Laughing Bill was forced to spar for wind.
"Ain't you the bold Mary Ann—makin' cracks like that?" he chided. "I'm ashamed of you, honest. I've passed up plenty of frills in my time, and we're all better off for it. My appetite for marriage ain't no keener than it used to be, so you forget it. Little Doc, he's the marrying kind."
"Oh yes. He tells me a great deal about his Alice. He's very much discouraged. If—if I had the Aurora I wouldn't forget him; I'd give him half."
"Would you, now? Well, he's the one stiffneck that wouldn't take it. He's funny that way—seems to think money 'll bite him, or something. I don't know how these pullanthrofists get along, with proud people always spurning their gifts. He's got my nan. You take my tip, Kid, and cling to your coin. Salt it down for winter. That's what I'm doing with mine."
"Are you?" Ponatah was not amused, she was gravely interested. "I thought you were broke, Billy."