and with no trace of his previous exaggeration, that he said, "With
pleasure."
"Then, if you will bring the horses at once, we shall be ready when you
return."
In another instant he had vanished, as if afraid to trust the reality of
his good fortune to the dangers of delay. At the end of half an hour
he reappeared, leading the two horses, himself mounted on a half-broken
mustang. A pair of large, jingling silver spurs and a stiff sombrero,
borrowed with the mustang from some mysterious source, were donned to do
honor to the occasion.
The young girls were not yet ready, but he was shown by the Chinese
servant into the parlor to wait for them. The decanter of whiskey and
glasses were still invitingly there. He was hot, trembling, and flushed
with triumph. He walked to the table and laid his hand on the decanter,
when an odd thought flashed upon him. He would not drink this time.
No, it should not be said that he, the selected escort of the elite of
Devil's Ford, had to fill himself up with whiskey before they started.
The boys might turn to each other in their astonishment, as he proudly
passed with his fair companions, and say, "It's Whiskey Dick," but he'd
be d----d if they should add, "and full as ever." No, sir! Nor when
he was riding beside these real ladies, and leaning over them at some
confidential moment, should they even know it from his breath! No. . . .
Yet a thimbleful, taken straight, only a thimbleful, wouldn't be much,
and might help to pull him together. He again reached his trembling
hand for the decanter, hesitated, and then, turning his back upon it,
resolutely walked to the open window. Almost at the same instant he
found himself face to face with Christie on the veranda.
She looked into his bloodshot eyes, and cast a swift glance at the
decanter.
"Won't you take something before you go?" she said sweetly.
"I--reckon--not, jest now," stammered Whiskey Dick, with a heroic
effort.
"You're right," said Christie. "I see you are like me. It's too hot for
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