“She's an uncommon fine looker yet,” Roebuck assured him.
“She is,” agreed Tucker. “I seen her the first time at her father's farm, I'd gone there to buy grain. Only to buy grain, mind you; I had no more idea of marrying again than nothing at all; but being married once makes a man bold, and I allow being married twice makes him downright reckless; so while old Tom Gough, her father—”
“I knowed him,” said Roebuck, interrupting him. “One eye missing,” he added, wishing to establish Mr. Gough's identity beyond peradventure.
“Fourth of July,” said Tucker. “Breach of his rifle blowed out.”
“That's him,” said Roebuck nodding. “Go on—old Tom Gough—”
“Went down to the barn to hook up,” said Tucker, resuming his narrative, “you see he wanted to show me his crops, I was intending buying in the field, and he left me setting on his front porch where I could see her through the hall whisking about helping her mother at the back of the house. Watching her I got so lonely that presently I called to her to come out where I was, and she called back that there was more between us than the house. 'More than the house between us,' says I, 'perhaps you mean a man.' 'Not a man,' says she, 'but I don't know as I fancy your looks, Mr. Tucker.' 'The liking of looks,' says I, 'is a matter of habit. Give me time and perhaps you'll like such looks as I have well enough.' That,” added Mr. Tucker savagely, “was the beginning.”
“And you married her,” said Roebuck.
“Damn her, I did,” said Tucker.
“Trouble from the start?” asked Roebuck.
“No, we got along satisfactory, you might say, with now and then a spat as is to be expected, and which signifies little enough.”