As the snow-clad prairie crept by to the leisurely plodding of Buck and Bright the mound which marked Spoof's house and stable gradually defined itself against the bright grey background of the December afternoon. Spoof had been on the look-out, and while our oxen were still puffing and blowing at a considerable distance from the shack we saw him coming over the drifts with his great, rapid, English stride. He was beside us in a few minutes, his wind-tanned face wreathed in smiles, his white teeth gleaming under a short, sandy mustache to which of late he had been giving some encouragement.
"Merry Christmas!" he cried. "The merriest ever—ever!" He held out both arms, and we all shook hands at once, and I suspect that the bride-elect pressed a chaste kiss upon his cheek. But Jack, as lawful owner, could afford to be generous. Jean took no such liberty. That would have been different.
The inside of Spoof's shack was always an example of orderly overcrowding. It was full of useless furniture, inappropriate clothing, fire-arms, saddles and bridles, cartridge belts, smoker's equipment, tobacco tins, photographs, magazines, and an endless assortment of miscellaneous knicknacks, all carefully placed and tended. Even when Spoof occupied it alone it was something of a mystery where he found space for himself in the midst of his possessions. But now Jean and Marjorie and Jack and I were crowded in as well, only to find a number of others already there.
Our eyes had not yet become accustomed to the semi-twilight of the interior when a familiar voice saluted us. "Merry Christmas, Sittin' Crow, an' ev'rybody," it said. "Didn't I warn you'se what 'ud happen?"
It was Jake. He was sitting perched like a toad on the wood-box where he could expectorate with convenience into the ashpan of the stove. "We dragged him into the centre of the floor and in the melee that followed Jake lost his footing and at least three of us were precipitated with him.
"Oh, save my husband, save my husband!" cried Bella Donna, in mock alarm, while Spoof gravely remarked that perhaps the cogitation nut had come loose.
"I am the minister," said a straight, clean-looking young man, when the uproar over Jake had subsided. "My name is Locke. This is our good friend Reddy; pardon me, by the way, Reddy, what—what is your real name? I should know it for introduction purposes."
"I left it down East," said the individual addressed as Reddy, a slight, boyish looking figure with a shock of carroty hair.
"Well, Reddy it is, then," said the minister, and we shook hands all around. "Reddy is an important personage in our town," Mr. Locke continued. "In a sense he is my chief competitor. He runs the village pool room, and, I am afraid, draws bigger crowds that I do Wednesday nights, and perhaps on Sundays, too—behind the blinds."
"Not guilty," pleaded Reddy. "There are no blinds on the shop."