When I came up against Balshannon Castle, I found it a sure enough palace, which was no place for me, so I pawed around outside inquiring. Her ladyship was to home, and I found her setting in a fold-up chair on the terrace. It made me feel uplifted to see her there nursing a small baby, crooning fool talk to the same, which she patted and smacked and nuzzled all at once.
"Wall," says she, as I came looming up accidental, "ef it ain't ole Chalkeye! Didn't I tell you awdehs to come long ago? Now don't you talk, or you'll spoil my kid's morals, 'cause he ain't broke to hawss-thieves. Yes, you may set on that stool."
"Curly," says I, feeling scared, "is that yo' kid?"
"Sort of. I traded for him. He's a second-hand angel. Now jest ain't he cute?"
He was a sure cunning little person, and thought me great medicine to play with.
"Whar is his lawdship?" says I.
"Jim's down to the pasture, breaking a fool colt, and Chalkeye—oh, you ole felon, how I enjoy to see yo' homely face! I got good news. Father's alive, yes, in New York. He writes to say he's got a job at a theatre, giving shows of roping and shooting. He's the Cowboy Champion, and"—her voice dropped to a whisper—"planning enormous robberies. He'll steal New York, I reckon."
"Curly," says I, "spose I give you good news. May I hold that kid just to try?"
"Now you tame yo'self, and don't get ra'ring up too proud. Then maybe you shall—to-morrow. Tell me yo' news."
I handed her the documents, which the governor of Arizona had made for me himself. Curly was pardoned, the charge against Jim was withdrawn, and I was to come up for trial when called upon. I shall not be called upon so long as I stay good.