"Oh, tush, tush!" says I. "You don't mean to tell me a man of your size is trailin' some Lizzie Maud?"
He cants his head on one side, pulls out a blue silk handkerchief, and begins to wind it around his fore finger, like a bashful kid that's been caught passin' a note in school.
"Her—her name's Zylphina," says he,—"Zylphina Beck."
"Gee!" says I. "Sounds like a new kind of music box. No relation, I hope?"
"Not yet," says he, swingin' his shoulders; "but we've swapped rings."
"Of all the cut-ups!" says I. "And just what part of the plowed fields do you and Zylphina hail from?"
"Why, I'm from Hoxie," says he, as though that told the whole story.
"Do tell!" says I. "Is that a flag station or just a four corners? Somewhere in Ohio, ain't it?"
"Sheridan County, Kansas," says he.
"Well, well!" says I. "Now I can account for your size. Have to grow tall out there, don't you, so's not to get lost in the wheat patch?"