“Suppose,” says Telescope, “suppose somebody said to you: ‘Muley, I’ll give you a year’s salary if you’ll keep away from Susie?’ What would you do?”
“Me? I’d rise up on my hind legs and inform him that my love ain’t for sale. Sabe? Not for the salary of a lifetime.”
Telescope thinks it over for a while, and then shakes his head, sad-like:
“Maybe you would, Muley. I sure hopes you gets them sheep, ’cause you qualifies for the shepherd class without no fixing. I’ve read about love making a fool out of a man, but—well, it ain’t no funeral of mine.”
That night we shakes hands with Telescope and Chuck and the old man, and wishes them many happy returns of the day.
“Don’t give up the ship, Muley,” advises Telescope. “Do a lot of thinking while we’re gone, and if you can figure out any way of making money without robbing a bank, me and Chuck will put her over for you, eh, Chuck?”
“A stiff upper lip gathers no mustache,” proclaims Chuck, “and a faint heart never rustled no sheep, Muley. So-long, you pitch-fork puncher. And, Hen-ree, don’t fall in love. One shepherd in the family is a plenty.”
Me and Muley rides back to the ranch, but Muley ain’t got much to say. Love is a queer little animal, and affects folks different. Muley’s was the dark-blue variety, with circles around the eyes.
The next morning after breakfast Muley gets a sheet of paper and a pencil, and seems to compose deep-like. After a while he cuts loose a deep sigh, and looks, dreamy-like, at the ceiling.
“I’m here,” says I. “Can I help you in any way, Muley?”