“Shut up your bag, lassie! Don’t show us any more o’ your gear,” appealed Jim in perturbation at the thought of what might come out next.
The buxom, fair-haired woman began to sob again. She turned and appealed to Phil.
“Oh, what am I to do, mister? I had a good job at Nixon’s Café in Seattle. Sol wrote to me through the 195 Matrimonial Times. I wrote back to him. I sent him my picture and he sent me his––this one––and now he says he ain’t him.”
“That isn’t his photo, woman,––it is mine,” interrupted Jim.
“But he’s you,” she whimpered.
“Then who the mischief am I?” asked Jim in perplexity.
“You told me you had a house, and fruit trees, and a blacksmith’s shop, and plenty of money and, if I came to Canada, we’d get married. I throwed up my good job and I’ve come and now you say you ain’t him,” she sailed on breathlessly, her ample bosom labouring excitedly.
“Phil,” said Jim, aside. “How the devil do you suppose that big idiot got my photo? It looks like one taken off one I used to have, and lost.”
“I guess that is just what it is,” grinned Phil.
“Well,––we’ve got to see this little woman right, and incidentally give Sol Hanson the biggest fright he ever got in his natural.