where there was some vacant land below us. He was sizing things up. Two
or three weeks after he told me he'd bought that tract--the whole works,
clear down to the end of the park. I don't know what he paid for it, but
it must have been a lot of money.

"You see," says he, "all them people up there north of us on the row
they ain't got only a little bit of land for their houses. Me, I'm going
to have a place with half a mile or so of ground to it. Bonnie Bell has
got to have a place to herself for to raise crocuses and other flowers,"
says he, "and to cultivate her Boston dog."

It was kind of hard times right then and a good many men was out of
work. Old Man Wright put a lot of 'em to work on his new Bonnie Bell
Addition, as he called it. He dug it up and smoothed it down and laid it
out, and planted it with trees and sodded it. And then, down at the far
end of it, he just puts up a high wall like the Wisners', but 'way off
from it. Then we dug down along the Wisner wall.

Folks used to go along and wonder what it was done for and who done it.
And later on some folks farther up the drive allowed it was some kind of
a new Italian garden and some of them begun to put up them walls too. It
got right fashionable. The whole looks of that part of town was changed.
But, while they had little bits of yards you couldn't swing a cat in, we
had land enough to start a hay ranch if we had of wanted to.

"I can afford it," says Old Man Wright.

And by the time he had the improvements started the real-estate men come
and pestered him to take at least three times as much money as he give
for it.

"I may sell it sometime," says he, "but not now," says he. "I like it.
My girl likes to raise crocuses, and what she likes she gets. We're
going to raise plenty of crocuses and tulips and hollyhocks," says he.

It wouldn't be right to say Bonnie Bell didn't have no friends. Once
there come quite a bunch of girls from out of town--girls she had knew
in Smith's; and they had quite a visit. They tore up the house and for a
week or so Bonnie Bell was right happy; but by and by they went away
again. Then nobody come into our place, the sort we wanted to come.

There was one man come to call on us--it was Henderson, of our old
hotel. We used to go down there and eat sometimes, and every time we
done so he'd come to stand around. He couldn't keep his eyes off Bonnie
Bell. I reckon he was about forty years old.

Now one day he come up to our house in the afternoon all dressed up,
with a white flower in his coat and a high hat on, and shiny shoes, and
he ast for Old Man Wright; and William showed him into the back parlor.
I was setting in our ranch room, so I could hear what went on--I
couldn't very well help it. I heard what Mr. Henderson said; so I knowed
what brought him there all dressed up.

"Mr. Wright," says he, "I won't waste time. I'm used to doing business
in a direct way. So today I come down--I come down--that is to say, I
come today----" says he.

"Well, for a direct man, you're taking some time to say what you want to
say," says Old Man Wright; "but maybe I can guess it if you can't say
it. It's my girl you come to talk about?"

I didn't hear him say anything, but I guess he must have nodded.

"You want to ast me?" says Old Man Wright. "Why didn't you ast her?"

"I thought it better to see if you would consider me as a suitor, sir,"
says he. "It seemed a fairer thing."

"I don't know as a parent ought to consider any man that would ast him
first," says Old Man Wright thoughtful; "but in some ways you're a good
man, and square and successful."

"My profession--my business--being an innkeeper isn't exactly the
highest form of business----"

"Hell! That's got nothing to do with it," says Old Man Wright. "I
imagine my girl might marry most any kind of man if he was the right
sort. But now let's figure on this, Mr. Henderson," says he, "because I
like you. You're some older than she is."

"Yes," says he; "old enough to know a splendid woman like Miss Wright
when I see her. In my business I've seen plenty that ain't."

"That's good," says Old Man Wright. "I like to hear you say that. I
don't blame you for feeling the way you do. And I feel kind to you too,
sir. You're the first man that ever said a kind word to me and my girl
in this town. You're almost the last, as far as that goes. You're as
good as us and we're as good as you, if it comes to that. But now let's
figure a little further. The man that marries my girl, marries
her--there ain't a-going to be no divorce. There may be a funeral if
there's trouble, but there ain't going to be no divorce for Bonnie Bell.
It's death that's going to part her and her husband. You see I got to be
careful about her, don't you?"

"Yes, and you ought to be. I never felt my years as a handicap."

"They ain't, in business," says Old Man Wright. "But now look-a-here: As
you live along together she'll be still young when you're pretty old.
Take ten or fifteen years off of you and ten or fifteen thousand
cocktails, and I'd say 'God bless you!' But the years and the cocktails
is there permanent. You're kind of soft around the stomach, Mr.
Henderson, I'm sorry to say. Ain't you making a mistake in wanting to
marry my girl at all, sir?"

I don't reckon he was happy; yet he certainly was game.

"Mr. Wright," says he at last, "that's why I come to you first! I was
conscious of them ten million cocktails--it's nearer ten million than
ten thousand, I reckon, in my business. It seemed to me fairer to talk
to you first. I'm not apt to forget her very soon--I'm not apt to look
at any woman at all. I reckon I don't want to get married if I can't
marry her. Maybe it ain't fair for a man at my time of life and way of
life to think of marrying a girl like her. I reckon I been selfish. I
reckon maybe you set me right."

"Where did you come from?" says Old Man Wright.

"The South," says he.

"I know that; but what state?"

"Kentucky," says he. "I been living here a great many years."

"You're a gentleman, Mr. Henderson," says Old Man Wright. "I wisht
things wasn't just the way they are. But now, on the level, do you think
we'd better say anything to Bonnie Bell at all about this here?"

Henderson must have thought it over quite a while. Then I heard him take
a step or so. Maybe he picked up his hat. Maybe his cane knocked against
a chair. Maybe they shook hands.

"I don't want to do anything that isn't best for her," says he at last.
"I reckon maybe I ain't a good-enough man to marry her. I reckon maybe
you're right, sir," says he.

Old Man Wright he don't talk no more for a little while. I heard them
walk toward the door.

"No," says he at length. "Mr. Henderson, I don't reckon we'll say
anything about this to Bonnie Bell after all. Good-by, sir. I wish I
could ast you to come here often."

"Good-by," says he.

I seen him go down the walk after a while. He forgot all about his car
waiting by the sidewalk and walked half a block before he come to. Of
course, he couldn't come to see us no more after that.

As for me, I didn't have no friends either. Jimmie the hired man was
about the only friend around there I cared much for, and now he was
gone--fired, I supposed. Times got even lonesomer than ever.

Bonnie Bell come in the room where I was setting one day, and she set
down on the lounge and put her chin in her hand and taken a look out the
window. I ast her what was up.

"Well," says she, "I was just wondering about the seeds for them big
flower beds we've been making," says she. "I'll be wanting to plant them
next spring, at least. If I had some experienced man that knew about
flowers now--"

"Why don't you go down to the park," says I, "and talk to some of them
Dutch gardeners that raises the flower beds down there? They'll know all
about them things," says I.

"Curly," says she, "you're only a cowpuncher, ain't you?"

"That's all," says I.

"Well, that accounts for you not having no sense at all," says she.

X

US BEING ALDERMAN

Really, that fence must of hurt the Wisners as bad as it done anybody
else. Us having plenty of ground, our house wasn't built so close to the
line as theirs was. The fence must of cut off more light for them than
it did for us. Besides, when you looked at it from the street, unless
you lived around there and knowed about it, you'd of thought it was us
built that fence to spite them and not them to spite us.

Old Man Wright was running on what they called the Independent ticket
that fall; there was three parties and the town was all tore up. Of
course everybody knows there oughtn't to be but just two
parties--Republicans and Democrats. Me being from Texas, original, I
don't see why anybody should be anything but a Democrat; but Old Man
Wright he had a way of picking out things.

Well, they held the election along in November. I might of knowed how it
would come out. They ain't done counting all the Wright votes yet over
in that ward of ours. At about half past six they'd had time enough to
count all the sufferedges that Old Man Wisner taken down in the
silk-stocking part of that ward.

At about half past three in the afternoon the papers come out with
bulletins and says the ward was "conceded to Wright." I should say it
was conceded! I conceded it, anyways, as soon as I knowed he wanted to
run.

Well, sir, it was more like old times then than we'd seen since we moved
in there--like the times when we was sher'f in the Yellow Bull country.
The old man he come in a-laughing along about suppertime and under his
own steam, and says he:

"Bonnie Bell, your pa is going to be high in the nation's councils right
soon, because he is going to be alderman in one of the most important
wards in this here town. I may be mayor some day; and when you're mayor
you're due to chirk up and think of being president--if you are a
humorist. Also, your pa is hungry. Please get Curly and me all the ham
shanks and greens they is in the house.

"And, besides," says he when Bonnie Bell was going out, "pull the front
door wide open tonight. Take the lock out and hide William where they
can't any of my horny-handed friends find him. They'll be in here
tonight, a bunch of them, to sort of celebrate our glorious victory.
There may be several bands along in here--I hope and trust so. I
shorely am fond of music and I like bands. Whenever I get elected sher'f
or anything I want the band to play--all the bands they is."

Well, that was some night! I was glad for once we had come to Chicago,
for there is more bands in a town that size than there is in Cody.

Old Man Wright he was more natural than I'd ever saw him for a long
while. I don't know if it was quite fair the way he done, because it
ain't held Christian to set on a man when he's down. But what he done
was to get that Dutch band with five pieces that played in front of our
house every morning--they come in first. He stations them at the side of
the road right square in front of Old Man Wisner's house, and he tells
them to play everything they knew and then play it all over again, and
keep on playing. We was setting eating dinner, enjoying their music as
much as we could, when the leader of the band comes in; and says he:

"_Mein Herr, wir sind schon ausgeblasen._"

"Is that so?" says Old Man Wright. "Well, have a drink, and go out and
begin over again."

About now come the rest of the bands, six or eight or so, and back of
them was the merry villagers. They filled up the whole street in front
of our steps and in front of the Wisners, and up and down the row; and
some of 'em stepped on Bonnie Bell's new tulip beds in the yard south of
us.

"Unto them that hath is gave," says Old Man Wright, looking peaceful.
"Like enough, most all the bands in this part of town'll be here before
long. Pore old Dave Wisner, he don't seem to have no band; so I'll fix
him up--he don't seem cheerful, with his blinds down thataway. Round up
our bands, Curly," says he, "and line some of 'em up in front of his
house on the other side of the street. Get some of 'em and stand 'em up
on our side of his fence. Make a line of 'em back to the boathouse. Tell
'em to play--I ain't particular what they play. They don't even need to
play the same piece unless they want to; but keep 'em busy--play
everything they have and then repeat softly, and if they get tired feed
'em and give 'em something to drink. And tell Johnson, the precinct
captain, when he comes about eight o'clock, to come on in with his
friends, the whole gang--the door is open and there's no strings on it,
and no strings on the new alderman."

Old Man Wisner must have been enjoying his life that evening while we
was celebrating our being alderman. Bonnie Bell she didn't approve of
this none, but she knowed that when her pa was in one sort of mood she'd
better leave him alone and let him have his way--there wasn't no
stopping him.

After a while Johnson, the precinct captain that had had this election
in charge, he come in to have a talk with the new alderman, him and a
lot more. There was a good many Swedes up in his ward, and plenty of
these folks was blue-eyed and had yellow hair, and some of 'em had long
whiskers. On the whole they carried their liquor pretty well, and they
had plenty. Old Man Wright was in his shirt sleeves--rolled up so that
his freckles would show--and he had two or three cases of red liquor,
and not a cork in the room!

"So far as Sunday closing is concerned," says he, "it ain't Sunday yet."

They taken something with the new alderman and hollered for a speech.

"Men," says he, "we licked 'em like I said we would--only more. I don't
ast any of you to show me how to make any more money, for I've got
enough. We made this fight on the Lake Electric Ordinance. The intention
of the other gang was to hold up all you people that has homes of your
own. Every one of you has to use electric light. It's only right you
ought to pay a fair price, but nothing more. Let me tell you that's all
you're going to pay. I've bought into that company, and me and my bank
crowd can run it. Let me tell you the prices will be right: don't you
worry about that none at all. For once you'll get a square deal here;
or if you don't, then elect some other man the next time."

"Hooray for our new alderman!" says Johnson, jumping up then.

They all jumps up too. They had their glasses in their hands--plenty of
men standing there in our ranch room, rather big men with yellow
whiskers, a good many.

About then Bonnie Bell she comes down the front stairs. She was all
dressed up in silk, in a low-necked dress and a good many jewels on. You
wouldn't hardly of thought it was her pa standing in his shirt sleeves
in the room.

"Gentlemen," says Old Man Wright, "this is my daughter."

What them men did was not to compare them two at all. They just stood in
line and every one of 'em raised his glass like she was a real queen;
and they give her three cheers. Bonnie Bell she drops them a curtsy.

You see, them folks saw that, while we had the price and had the class,
and could play some games, we was just folks. They felt all the time
that they was just folks too. When you can play that game square and on
the level, like Old Man Wright done, they can't beat you in politics.

Them people went away at last--even our little Dutch band, though they
give up hard. The Wisner house was dark, while ours was all lit
up--everything in it, including me, Curly. The papers said that the new
alderman kept open house until a late hour. There was some truth in
that--the door was open all night long.

At breakfast Old Man Wright was hungry, though he hadn't been to bed. He
set, with his hands in his pockets, and looked out at Wisner's brick
wall; and says he to me:

"This here is going to be a changed ward. I ain't in no man's vest
pocket. I ain't done yet. This is just the beginning. But where's the
kid, Curly?"

I went and found her. William was still hid somewhere--the night's
doings had grieved him plenty. She come in and set down by her pa.

"Well, sis," says he, "you see your dad is getting some of them Better
Things we come to Chicago after."

"Dad," says she, pushing back a little way from him and looking into his
face, "tell me something."

"What is it, Honey?"

"The truth now--the truth."

"Yes, Honey."

"Did you sell out the Circle Arrow and come to town on account of me?"

He didn't speak at first.

"Yes, I did, Honey," says he at last. "I said I'd tell you the truth.
That was why we sold the old ranch--so as you could come here. I wanted
you to go as high as any American woman could go. We educated you for
that--we brought you up for it, Curly and me."

"We didn't win, did we, dad?" says she, slow like. "How is it done,
dad?"

"Gawd knows," he says. "Tell me, sis, if we pulled out of here and went
to some other town, would you be better? How about Kansas City?"

"No," says she. "Our feet ain't headed that way. I won't quit, dad."

"You'll break your heart first, and your dad's?"

"Yes, if necessary."

"All to break into them sepulchers?"

"No," says she; "there's a lot of things worth while more than that.
These brick-and-stone houses are the trenches. They may be hard to take.
But back of them lies the country, and it's the country that's worth
while. You found it--over on the other side of the ward. For me--don't
mind if I haven't found it just yet."

"Ain't you happy, sis?" says he.

"No," says she, quiet like; "I'm not."

He pats her on the back.

"Get out of doors," says he. "Do something--work at something! Look
upwards and outside, and don't get to looking inwards," says he. "That
ain't the way. Think what's in the fields beyond."

"Life, dad," says she, slow; and it seemed to me like she was sad.
"Life!"

"Life?" says he. "Sis, what do you mean? Tell your old dad, can't you?"

She told him, then. She put her haid down on his neck.

"Oh," says she, "it's all right for you two--you've got something to
do--you can work and fight; but what can I do? What is there for me to
do in all the world? And you tried so hard to make me happy!"

"And you ain't happy?" says her pa.

"Dad!" says she. "Dad!" And she went on crying down his neck.

Ain't women hell? I went on away.

XI

US AND THE FREEZE-OUT

More and more folks begun to talk about us and our place since we got to
be alderman. Of course more and more people begun to come in and visit
with us now; but not one from Millionaire Row, though, if I do say it,
we had the best-looking place now in the whole row of houses.

It was one of Bonnie Bell's ideas to make one of them sunken gardens,
which she said was always done in Italy.

"I'll tell you," says she; "we'll build our sunken garden right up
against Old Man Wisner's wall. How would it do to plant a few ivy vines
to run up the side of the wall, dad?" she ast her pa.

"Why, all right," says he; "but you be mighty careful not to plant any
olive branches."

So Bonnie Bell and me we was busy quite a while making plans for this
here sunken garden. We read all the books we could find; still, she
wasn't happy.

"I need some skilled gardener in this," says she; "them Dutch down at
the park are no good at all. I wonder where the Wisners' gardener
went."

"That fellow wasn't so much," says I to Bonnie Bell.

"What makes you say that, Curly?" says she.

"Well, I heard him talking one morning and I didn't like it. For that
matter, I didn't like the way he talked about you neither. I told him we
couldn't have nothing to do with the lower classes--let alone now, when
we're alderman, we couldn't do that. He was fired and he ought to of
been."

"How did you come to know all this, Curly?" says she.

"I heard him down at the boathouse talking to Old Lady Wisner. I think
we're mighty well shut of the whole bunch of them--though I will say he
was learning to rope all right, and I could of made a cowhand out of him
if I'd had time."

"What did she say, Curly?" she asked me then, "Did she really talk about
us?"

"Yes, she did. She thought you was a hired girl. And she says we was
can-nye, and he wasn't to mix with us. Can-nye--what is can-nye,
Bonnie?" says I.

She got red in the face and was shore mad at something.

"Can-nye, eh!" says she. "Can-nye! So that's what she thinks we are."

"Well, that was before we was alderman," says I. "Maybe they think
different now, whatever can-nye is. What is it, anyway?"

"It means something common, vulgar and low down, Curly," says she.

"That wasn't no bouquet, then, was it?" says I. "Well, I didn't think so
then, though I never heard it called to nobody in my life. I made it
plain, though, to that hired man that he didn't have no chance to break
into our house."

"Did he want to come over, Curly?" she ast.

"Crazy to! He wanted to get a look in our ranch room. I told you he was
hankering to be a cowpuncher."

"Well, why didn't you bring him over if he was trying to learn things
you could teach him?"

"What! Me bring him in our place? I reckon not! Now look here, kid,"
says I, "you don't half know how good-looking you are."

"I'm not," says she. "I got a freckle right on my nose. It don't come
off neither."

"Well, maybe one freckle or so," says I; "but that don't kill off your
looks altogether. Let me tell you, when it comes to common people like
him talking your name out in public, why, it don't go!" says I.
"Besides, another thing"--I went on talking to her right plain. "Look at
the money you'll come into sometime! He has got to show me a-plenty what
right he had to say you was wonderfully beautiful. You are, kid--but
what business was it of his?"

"He has been gone four months and eight days," says she, thoughtful.

"How do you know he has? Do you keep a calendar on folks like him?"

"No; I was just thinking," says she, "that if he was here I might ask
him about my sunken garden."

"That would be fine, wouldn't it?" says I. "But then, come to think of
it, he wasn't in favor of that fence hisself. He was right free-spoken;
I'll say that for him."

"He didn't like that fence idea?"

"Of course he didn't. He knew it wasn't right."

"Well," says she, "I'm going to plant ivy on it. If it runs over the top
of the wall and hangs down on their side I'm not going to try to stop
it."

Now, why she said that I never could figure out at all. I suppose women
is peacefuller than men.

The folks in the ward where we live at they allowed their new alderman
was on the square. I reckon it must of been them freckles. There ain't
no way of beating a man in politics that has freckles and that can carry
his liquor. So by and by all the papers come out and begun to say maybe
Mr. John William Wright would be a candidate for treasurer next
election. That is about as high as you can get in city politics.
Treasurers make a heap more than their salaries usual in any large
town. The people don't seem to mind it neither.

Times out on the range wasn't so good now as they might of been. Them
high benches along the mountains never was made for farming. The new
settlers that had come in under our old patents, through this here
Yellow Bull Colonization and Improvement Company, they was shore having
hard sledding along of their having believed everything they seen in the
papers. They'd allowed they was going into the Promised Land. It
was--but it wasn't nothing else but a promise.

It was Old Man Wisner's fault really. Though, after his usual way in
side lines, he never showed his hand, he was deep in that company
hisself. It was him now that had to hold the thing together. The
settlers got sore and some of them quit, and most of them didn't pay
their second or third payments. Of course that didn't make no
difference, so far as we was concerned, for the Yellow Bull Colonization
and Improvement Company had to make their deferred payments just the
same to us. But when the company's money run out, and they maybe had to
assess the stockholders, some of the stockholders got almighty cold
feet.

"Well, Colonel," says I, "I reckon we'll get back our ranch some of
these days, won't we? I shore wish we would."

"So do I, Curly; but I'm afraid not," says he.

"Why not?" I ast him.

"Well, it's Old Man Wisner--that's the reason," says he. "You see, it's
his money that they are working with now," says he. "Their new ditch has
cost them more than four times what the engineer said it would--a ditch
always does. They've been wasting the water, like grangers always do,
and they're fighting among themselves. These States people has to learn
how to farm all over again when they go out into that sort of country.
As to them pore stockholders, I reckon you could buy them out right
cheap; but, cheap or not, Old Man Wisner's in more than he ever thought
he'd be," says he.

"Ain't you going to let the old man off on none of them deferred
payments?" says I, grinning.

"I am, of course, Curly," says he, solemn. "Seeing what he has done for
us, I'm just hankering for some chance of doing him a kindness!" says
he.

I begun to believe that before this here game was all played there'd be
some fur flying between them two old hes, neither of which was easy to
make quit.

XII

US AND A ACCIDENTAL FRIEND

Bonnie Bell she was busy, after her little ways, fixing her
garden or laying out her flower beds, or reading, or studying about
pictures. She drove her electric brougham a good deal, riding around.

She was riding along one day in the park below our house when she seen a
girl go riding by, with some others and a young man or two, on
horseback, bouncing along bumpety-bump, rising up every jump as though
the saddle hurt 'em. One of the girls was on a mean horse, but she was
going pretty well and didn't seem to mind it. But this horse he taken a
scare at a automobile that was letting off steam, and, first thing you
know, up went the horse in front and the girl got a fall.

There wasn't any of them very good riders, and this horse, being a bad
actor, scared the others. They all bolted off, not seeming to know that
this girl had fell off. She lit on her head.

Bonnie Bell seen all this happen, and she gets out of her car on the
keen lope and runs over to where the girl is and picks her up. Her and
a policeman took her in Bonnie Bell's brougham. She didn't know nothing
yet, being jolted some on the head.

Now that girl was pretty as a picture herself, with light hair and blue
eyes, and kind of a big mouth. She was smiling even when she didn't know
a thing. She was always smiling. She was dressed like she had lots of
money; and she was fixed for riding--boots and some sort of pants.

Bonnie Bell couldn't bring her to and she concludes to take her home to
our house. First thing I know, there she was outside, hollering for me.

"Come here quick, Curly!" says she. "Come help me carry her into the
house."

So I helped her. The girl still had her quirt in her hand and she was
kind of white.

"Who is she, Bonnie Bell?" says I; and she says she didn't know, and
tells me to go and get a doctor.

But while I was getting William to telephone--I couldn't use them things
much myself--the girl comes to, all right; and she sets up and rubs her
head.

"Oh, what do you know about that!" says she. "He got me off. I thank you
so much. Which way did he go?" she ast.

"He was headed to the riding-school barn," says Bonnie Bell, "the last I
saw of him. Your friends were all going the same way. So I thought the
best thing I could do was to bring you here till you felt better."

I don't reckon the girl was hurt bad, she being young; and such girls is
tough.

"Well," says she, "it certainly was nice of you. And how am I to thank
you?" She kissed Bonnie Bell then for luck. "You're nice," says she,
"and I like you."

Bonnie Bell, if you'll believe me, was kind of timid and scared, with it
being so long since any woman had said a kind word to her. She didn't
hardly know what to say, at first, till the girl kissed her again.

"I am Katherine Kimberly," says she. "We live just above the park. Where
is this?"

"This is just above the park too," says Bonnie Bell--"on the boulevard.
This is Mr. John William Wright's place," says she, "and I'm Miss
Wright. Can I serve some tea to you?" So she calls William.

When William brings in the tea them two set up and begun to talk right
sociable. This here Kimberly girl she rubbed her head once in a while,
but she wasn't hurt much along of having so much hair to fall on her
head with. The tea fixed her all right.

"I hit my coco a jolt!" says she. "Gee! I was going some. I'll never
ride that long-legged old giraffe again; he's nothing but a dog after
all--not that I'm afraid, but I don't like him," says she. "Do you
ride?"

"Would you like to come and see my horses?" says Bonnie Bell. "If you
like horses----"

"Do I like them? I'm crazy over them! Can you ride?"

"Oh, some," says Bonnie Bell. "Curly says I can."

"Curly?" And she looks at me.

"He's our foreman," says Bonnie Bell. "Talk to him if you want to know
about riding--he's a rider."

"I was once, ma'am," says I, "but not no more. I wouldn't get on a mean
horse now for a thousand dollars. I'm scared of horses, ma'am; but she
ain't"--meaning Bonnie Bell. "She still thinks she can ride any of 'em."

"Yes," says Bonnie Bell; "and, as far as that goes, if I could get you
to come with me I would always ride a horse and not go in a car or
boat."

"Boat?" says Miss Kimberly. "Oh, of course you have 'em too."

"Come down," says Bonnie Bell, "and you and I can look at my horses and
boat and things. After that I'll take you home."

"Oh, may I go?" says this Katherine girl. "You see, I suppose I must get
home before they tell mommah."

Well, she hadn't more than got out on our porch than she knew in a
minute where she was. This was where she showed she was a lady born and
a good girl too. She never let on beyond that first look--she seen she
had been brought into the house of us can-nyes. This was the house with
the wall, where nobody of the Row ever went.

"How lovely it is!" says she. "Do you know you have the nicest place on
this whole street? It's tasteful. I like this little sunken garden--it's
a dear! And see how the ivy grows on the wall! And over there's the
boathouse. May I see your things?"

Now what she said last wasn't any bluff. It was just the girl in her
talking to another girl. I seen Bonnie Bell give her another look, kind
of asting like--she herself was free and friendly every way; but she
hadn't been used to this right along lately. So she looks at this
Katherine Kimberly right close for about half a second, till she seen
she was on the square.

Then this Kimberly girl puts her arm round Bonnie Bell. That was the way
them two went down to the boathouse--their arms around one another. When
they come back, in about ten minutes or so, they was talking so fast
neither one of them could of heard what the other was saying.

"Oh, my goodness!" says Katherine after a little. "I must be going home.
It isn't far, you know."

"Yes; I know," says Bonnie Bell, quiet.

"And you said you'd take me home in your car?"

"And you want me to?" says Bonnie Bell, kind of funny.

"I wish you would--if you will. Of course I could walk."

"Does your head hurt now?" ast Bonnie Bell.

The girl looked at her straight. Then I knew she was on the square.

"No, it don't," says she; "but I'd like it if you would take me home in
your car," says she. "I want you to come in and meet my mommah. We want
to come down here if you'll let us, all of us. Will you let us? Will you
let us, Bonnie?" says she.

Now, ain't it funny how much can happen quiet and easy? I expect more had
happened for Bonnie Bell this last hour or so than had in a whole year
before--and all by accident, like most good things comes to us. Not a
woman in that block had ever called on Bonnie Bell and it didn't look
like they ever would. We wasn't on the map--even me, that ain't got any
brains at all, knowed that.

And yet I could tell that if Bonnie Bell Wright drove along the front of
that block with Katherine Kimberly in her car, and they got off at the
Kimberlys' and went in--and if the Kimberlys come up to our house,
too--why, then I knowed we was on the map. I don't think Bonnie Bell
cared. What was in her heart was mostly gladness at meeting some girl
friend she could talk to right free.

Of course, living there so long, I couldn't help knowing some of the
things along the Row. I knowed there was a sort of a fight there as to
which was the queen of Millionaire Row, which was the same as being the
queen of the society of this here city of Chicago. Either it was this
Mrs. Henry D. Kimberly or else it was Mrs. David Abraham Wisner. The
Kimberlys was in wholesale leather, while the Wisners was in wholesale
beef and pork, and them things. Most everybody in the Row, it seemed to
me, had something to do with a cow, one shape or another, except
us--which, dealing with cows on the hoof, might of been said to be at
the bottom of the whole game. But that ain't respectable, like I told
you. Sausage or hides or leather is better--especial if wholesale.

Bonnie Bell was quiet. She taken up the collar of this Katherine girl
and looks at the little pin she wore on it.

"What year was yours?" says she.

"Last June," says Katherine.

Then I seen they was both scholars of that same Old Man Smith, where
Bonnie Bell had went to school. They had on some sort of pins so they
knew each other, like Masons. Not having nothing better to do, they
kissed each other again.

By the time Bonnie Bell had drove over to the Kimberlys' house folks had
found Katherine's horse, but not her; so her ma was scared silly,
natural enough. When she seen her long-lost daughter coming with Bonnie
Bell, both of them able to walk and talk, she was right glad, and fell
on the necks of both of them, weeping some.

"And who is this young lady," says she, meaning Bonnie Bell, "who has
been so kind as to bring you home to your mother?"

And she smiled at Bonnie Bell, her being the second woman to do that in
Chicago in two years. You see, if a girl is handsome women mostly hate
her; the men don't--which is why.

"This is our neighbor, Miss Wright, mommah," says Katherine. "They live
just below us a little way."

She got red in the face then, for everybody on the street there knew
about us and the high fence; yet nobody knew us personal. But
Katherine's ma was different from most of these other people. Besides,
you only needed one good look at Bonnie Bell to see that she wasn't any
common folks.

"She left Smith the year before I went in, mommah," says Katherine, "and
she's in my sororyety; and she's been here ever since they built their
fine house; and she's a dear and I love her." Katherine had a way of
talking all in one breath, like a sprinter running a hundred yards flat.
"I want you to love her, too," says she to her ma.

And then Old Lady Kimberly she taken Bonnie Bell in her arms and kissed
her some more; and the kid, like enough, come near to spilling over
then.

"Come right in and have a cup of tea," says she.

So they went into the house, and the Kimberlys' sad man, which was named
William, too, brought them some tea. They didn't need it none, because
they was full of it already; but women can hold plenty of tea. When they
was drinking that and, like enough, all three of them talking at once,
Katherine tells her ma all about how she got threw from her horse, and
how Bonnie Bell saved her life and carried her home and took care of
her, and now brought her back.

"Mommah, their place is lovely," says she. "They've all sorts of nice
things and we're going to call as soon as Bonnie Bell will let us."

"Yes, indeed," says her ma, who was going to back any play her girl
made.

"Bonnie Bell," says she--"that is a odd name and a very pretty one."

Bonnie Bell laughed at that.

"It's one my dad gave me," says she. "My real name is Mary Isabel. My
dad always called me Bonnie Bell; and so did Curly."

"Curly?" says the old lady, not knowing who that was--me.

"Oh, Curly's a dear," says Katherine then. "He's a cowboy, or was when
he was younger; but he isn't young now. And he can ride any sort of
horse living, and rope things--I think he must be the stableman."

"Indeed he isn't," says Bonnie Bell. "He's our foreman."

They didn't know what that was, being city people; so she told them.
Them Kimberlys couldn't see why they took me to the city when they
didn't have no cows. I reckon they must of talked of me and Old Man
Wright plenty--you see, Bonnie Bell told me of it like it happened. She
told me what Katherine's ma wore and what their William looked like, and
what sort of pictures was on the walls. Womanfolks can see more than a
man and remember it better.

Well, sir, it wasn't any more than a week before Old Lady Kimberly drove
up to our house in her car; and she come right up the walk herself and
didn't send in any of them little cards that says: "Tag; you're It."

She come into our parlor, and our William went out and got Bonnie Bell
for her, and them two must of had a regular visit, because Katherine's
ma insisted on seeing our ranch room, which pleased her mighty much.
She said she certainly was going to bring her husband over, because he
would be crazy over it.

"Tell me," says she--"when can we come?"

"Why," says Bonnie Bell, "in a real ranch there isn't a time of the day
or night when you can't come and be welcome. Everybody's welcome at a
ranch, you know."

Old Lady Kimberly, she seemed kind of thoughtful over that; but she
didn't say nothing about being slow starting. Says she:

"If you'd let us come we'd all be so glad to come and sit in your ranch
room--it's new to us and we like it. I know my husband would like it
very much. As for Katherine, I don't think I'll be able to keep her away
after this."

Well, that afternoon, late, Katherine calls up on the telephone
again--about the eighth time she had already that day--and she ast might
her pa and ma and her come over that evening to see our ranch room. Of
course Bonnie Bell told them to come.

"Well, what do you know, Curly?" says she to me. "This ain't according
to Hoyle. Mrs. Kimberly ought to of waited till I returned her call, and
till maybe one or the other of us had invited the other to a reception,
or to a dinner or something."

"What's a reception?" says I.

"Something we never had yet, Curly," says she. "It's a place where
people ain't happy; but there's plenty of 'em. Maybe tonight is the
closest we've come to it."

Well, they all came that night, all three of 'em--twicet in one day,
which was going pretty strong; and, like enough, something they hadn't
never done before in all their lives.

"No you don't!" says Mrs. Kimberly when Bonnie Bell was going to take
'em into the parlor. "We're going right into the ranch room and sit
there, all of us--mayn't we, please?"

So they come in and Old Man Kimberly he walked around and looked through
the place; and he was like a kid.

"By golly, Wright!" says he. "I didn't know a alderman could have as
much sense as this," says he. "This is the real goods," says he--"you
can set down in one of those chairs and not break its legs off. And
here's tobacco handy, and matches all over the place. Now over in the
club all you get is a place to smoke and a big chair, and a fireplace to
look into. Ain't a city a cold old place, John Wright?" says he.

"Well, you see," says Old Man Wright by and by--"you see, folks get to
be pretty busy with one thing and another. I know they all mean right
well," says he, "but they get so busy in a town like this they don't
have time for anything."

That was about all that ever was said about our being neighbors on our
street. Nobody apologized for not having done this or that. We just
dropped in like we'd always been doing that way.

"Well, Alderman," says Old Man Kimberly after a time, "you certainly
know how to live. I'm going to drop in here every day or so, evenings,
because I can't get a match at the club without calling a boy, and here
you can just reach out and get plenty."

"Come in as often as you like, neighbor," says my boss; and he fills his
own pipe and passes the fine-cut.

Sometimes I think, after all, folks is a good deal alike inside, and
what makes good in one place will in another. We used these people like
we was all out on the Yellow Bull; and here was Old Man Kimberly feeling
better than he had in two years and all of 'em glad to come back to our
place. Which all happened right soon--and because of them two girls.

"Well," says Katherine's pa after a while, "if I had to choose I believe
I'd rather be a ranchman out West than anything in the world. Tell
me--what made you sell out and come East to live? Why couldn't you be
content where you was at?"

"Well," says my boss, kind of smiling crooked out of the end of his
mouth, "we come East to get some of the Better Things."

They looked then, both of 'em, over at the two young girls on the sofa.
They was so busy talking they didn't know anybody was looking at 'em.
When we was all quiet they both spoke out right at the same time. "I got
mine at Madeleine's," Katherine was saying; and Bonnie Bell says: "We
fry ours in butter." The Lord only knows what they'd been talking about;
but it didn't make no difference.

Well, anyways, we all had quite a fine time, setting there in our ranch
room, with the smoky mantelpiece and the old tables and chairs, and the
sofa covered with a hide, where the two girls was setting.

By and by they all got up and said they had to go home. Old Man Kimberly
he held out his hand to my boss, and they shook hands quite a while
together, not saying very much.

"Will you come over some evening?" he ast Old Man Wright.

And he says:

"Shore!"

About then Katherine's ma was kissing Bonnie Bell some more--she seemed
never to get tired of kissing Bonnie Bell. Then them two girls they
walks off to the front door, their arms around each other. I seen 'em
standing there under the light. By and by Katherine picks up Bonnie
Bell's hand and looks it over, and there wasn't no rings on it.

"Are you engaged yet, Bonnie?" she ast.

Bonnie Bell kind of blushed at that.

"No," says she. "Are you?"

"No. Mommah says I'm too young," says she; "but then----"

"Yes," says Bonnie Bell; "but then----"

Old Man Wright he turns to me after they'd all went away.

"Well, Curly," says he, thoughtful, "I reckon we're coming on."

"Yes," says I; "but then----"

XIII

THEM AND THE RANGE LAW

When they all went home us three set quite a while in our ranch room,
looking at the fire. It wasn't winter yet, but sometimes we lit the fire
in the fireplace. Old Man Wright he seemed to be thinking of something,
or trying to. At last he says:

"Sis, go get the fine-toothed comb and comb your pa's head--won't you,
sis?" says he.

"Can't your barber do that for you?" ast she.

"He does; but no barber can really comb a alderman's head soothing,"
says he, "not like his own kid can. Now a alderman that's soothed proper
might be induced to do almost anything, and combing him on his head is
like scratching a pig along its back with a cob. You try it, kid; it
might be perductive of a new car or something for you," says he.

So then she gets the comb and begins for to comb his head some, and he
goes on talking with me. Evident he had something on his mind; that was
the way he'd got used to think when something hard come up.

"Curly," says he to me after a while, "what would you say if we had a
chance to buy in the Circle Arrow Ranch again?"

"I'd say it was the finest thing in the world," says I. "Them grangers
ain't got a chance on earth. It takes a long course for to learn how to
understand a cow's mind," says I.

"That's what they call sikeology in Smith," says Bonnie Bell.

"Well," says I, "you can't get no course in cow sikeology in no four
years; it takes more than that on the range, like your pa and me done.
They can't raise nothing out there in the Yellow Bull but cows, and they
don't know how to raise them. Colonel," says I, "ain't them deferred
payments deferring all right?"

"Some," says he. "They didn't pay nothing this year yet and it's way
past due. Looks like there might be some trouble in there, don't it?"

"Well then," says Bonnie Bell, "where does that leave us? Look at this
place; look at all our expense." She stopped combing then.

"Don't worry about that," says her pa. "We've made plenty of money other
ways than that. For instance, I got a offer right now to sell out all
our land below here toward the park for about three times what we paid
for it. The Second Calvary Regiment wants to put up a barracks, or a
armory or something, in there. Also, a French milliner wants in, just
below here."

"What!" says Bonnie Bell. "That would ruin the whole Row. What do you
mean by that?"

"Huh!" says her pa. "That's what they all say. Old Man Wisner was crazy
when he heard something about it--he was going to get out a injunction.
I hope he'll try it; for he can't. Seems like most of the things he's
been trying on us he couldn't make go."

"Well, dad, I don't believe I'd like that barracks on our land either.
Suppose we all think it over a little bit."

"All right," says he. "There may be other ways of having fun with Dave.
I just thought of that one. Oh, well, I bought the lot north of them,
and I'm thinking of putting a Old People's Home in there," says he.
"Across the street from there I'm thinking of putting up a statue of
Kaiser Wilhelm; some of my constituents they would come there Sunday and
hold services," says he.

"Anything else you got on your mind, Colonel?" I ast him.

"Well, I just seen a chance to make a little speculation in a
moving-picture company," says he. "I didn't put in much--only two, three
hundred thousand dollars; but I didn't know but what it might make some
money after a while. How would you like to be a actor man in our
company, Curly?" says he. "The worst it could do would be to spoil a
puncher that never was much good anyhow."

"No," says I; "it's too much like work."

"Well, we could make other pictures," says he, smiling contented. "For
instance, we could set up two or three cameras right acrost the street
from Old Man Wisner's 'most any morning. Then, when Old Man Wisner come
out we could take his picture and show him how he looks when he has got
a grouch. Or we could take a picture of the old lady getting in her car
or getting out. Neither one of 'em has got much girlish figure now.

"Why, there's loads of pictures that we could take. If you didn't like
to work much riding or anything in the movies," says he, "you could be
taken leaning kind of careless on our gate and looking over the Wisners'
fence--for instance, talking to their hired man.... Don't you dig my
head no more, kid," says he. "I ain't no bomb-proof, like you think."

"Dad," says Bonnie Bell, "I ain't going to comb your head no more."

"Why?" says he.

"You're a mean and revengeful old man," says she. "It ain't right for us
to treat our neighbors thataway," says she, "and I won't have it."

"I'm living up to my laws," says he, calm. "I've got to hand Wisner
what he's trying to hand to me. You know the law that's been good enough
for us. That's the range law."

"This ain't the range," says she.

"Ain't it?" says he. "This looks like a ranch house some. If you'll run
your comb along over my dome, too, you'll find, unless I'm awful
mistaken, something like the head of a cowman. Feel with your thumb
good, Bonnie Bell," says he. "See if you can find any soft spot in
there, like in a melon. See if you can find any place where it feels
like I was going to lay down and let any yellow-livered son-of-a-gun try
to ride me, and me not resent it," says he. "They started this and it's
got to be finished--that's the law. Believe me, one way or the other,
that old white-face over there is going to be a good oxen sometime, and
he'll come up and feed outen my hand."

Bonnie Bell she quits combing and goes over and sets down on the lounge,
and don't say nothing; nor me neither. We both knew about the old man
when he started after anybody. He was that kind of a sher'f. It didn't
look peaceful none to me what might happen now.

"Lock, stock and barrel?" says he to himself. "Lock, stock and
barrel--that's the way we done. I dislike the color of their hair and
eyes. Lock, stock and barrel," says he, "they got to settle! I don't
want no truck with Dave Wisner, nor his old lady, nor their ox, nor
their ass, nor their manservant, nor their maidservant, nor the stranger
inside their gates--everything north of that fence is hostile to us and
everything south of it is hostile to them. There's no crossing."

"Their maidservant and their manservant, dad?" says Bonnie Bell.

"You heard me!"

"What's their maidservant or their manservant got to do with it, dad?"
ast she. She was setting on the lounge now, with the fine-tooth comb in
her hand.

"He'd better not have nothing to do with it," said Old Man Wright.
"Curly, you're foreman--see to it that not one of them crosses the
line."

"All right, Colonel," says I; "orders is orders."

XIV

HOW THEIR HIRED MAN COME BACK

There was only one thing kept that armory from going up right on our
flower beds. The weak side of Old Man Wright was, he couldn't help doing
anything a woman ast him to do. This Katherine girl, one day she comes
down to our place, with the paper in her hand, and she says to him:

"Look here, Colonel Wright," says she, "what's in the paper! Is that
true?"

"If it ain't true," says he, "it may be before long."

"Why, Colonel Wright," says she, looking at him with her eyes wide
open--and when she looked at you thataway couldn't no man help liking
her--"I wisht you wouldn't do that, sir--please!" says she.

"Why not?" says he.

"Well," says she, "because."

He turns around and throws up both hands. He never said another word
about it after that. But after a while the calvary regiment went
somewheres else--on some more land he had bought, so it turned out.
Nobody knew what changed his mind. It was Katherine, the first girl
friend that Bonnie Bell had had in the city.

You see, Katherine used to come to our house regular now; her and Bonnie
Bell was right thick together. One time Katherine come in quite excited.

"My brother Tom's coming back next week," says she. "Ain't that fine?"

"Is that so?" says Bonnie Bell. "I'd like to see him."

"Tom's going to live with us," says Katherine, "and be in the office
downtown--unless he gets married, or something of that kind. I wisht he
would. Now I wisht he would get engaged. I'd like to see how he'd act.
You can't guess what I'd like!"

"No," says Bonnie Bell; "I can't."

"Well, he's awfully good-looking," says Katherine. "He hasn't got much
sense though. He dances and can play a mandolin, and has been around the
world a good bit. He's sweet-tempered, but he smokes too much. Sometimes
of mornings he's cross. But you can't guess what I'd like!"

"No; I can't," says Bonnie Bell.

Then Katherine kissed her and taken her hands.

"Why," says she, "I'd like it awfully if you and Tom could hit it off
together," says she. "I think it would be lovely--perfectly lovely!
Then we'd be sisters, wouldn't we?" Bonnie Bell she blushed a-plenty.

"Why, how you talk!" says she. "I've never seen your brother yet and
he's never seen me."

"I've told him you're lovely," says Katherine. "I'll bring him over
sometime."

"I don't know how I could allow it after what you said," says Bonnie
Bell; "but if he's as nice as you I'll jump right square down his
throat. Could you ask me to do anything more than that?"

They giggled, then, and held hands, and ate candy and drank tea, and
talked, both with their mouths full.

"Oh, look at the Wisners' new car!" says Katherine after a while, and
she run to the window.

Their car was just coming in to the sidewalk at their curb now. From
where I set I could see it. Their driver opened the door and Old Lady
Wisner got out; then a young man. They both went out of sight right away
around the fence--you couldn't see into their yard from where we set.

The girls by this time had got so sometimes they'd talk about the
Wisners. Bonnie Bell says now:

"Why don't you call on the Wisners any more?"

"Oh, because," says Katherine. "We're friendly, of course, for the
families have lived in here so long; but Mrs. Wisner and mommah haven't
been very warm since the last Charity Ball business."

"I don't know about that," says Bonnie Bell.

"Oh, Lord! Yes," says Katherine. "They didn't speak for a while. You
know, Honey, the Wisners are among our best people. But then, mommah's a
Daughter of the Revolution and a Colonial Dame, and a Patriot Son, or
something of the sort besides. Mrs. Wisner, she's only a Daughter and
not a Dame; so she doesn't rank quite as high as mommah. Some said that
she faked her ancestors when she come in too. Anyway, when she tried for
the Dames they threw her down. Mommah was Regent or something of the
Dames then too--not that I think mommah would do anything that isn't
fair. But Old Lady Wisner got her back up then, and she's been hard to
curry ever since. We don't try."

"Well," says Bonnie Bell, "isn't that strange? I thought everybody in
the Row was friendly except--except----"

"Except the Wisners?" laughed Katherine. "But don't you worry. There's
plenty of differences in the Row. They have their fallings out. You see,
they all want to be leaders."

"I know," says Bonnie Bell. "In any pack train there always had to be
one old gray critter, with the bell."

"That's it!" says Katherine. "Well now, all these leaders of our best
people they want to carry the bell and go on ahead. That's what Mrs.
Wisner wants--and maybe mommah, though she has a different way of doing
things. Mommah's a dear! So are you, Honey; and I do wish Tom and
you----"

"I was just wondering who it was got out of their car just now," says
Bonnie Bell. "But the fence----"

"Ain't the ivy pretty on your side of your fence?" says Katherine.

Bonnie Bell stood in front of her and looked at her square.

"Look here, Kitty Kimberly, you're as sweet as can be and I love you,
but don't try to keep up the bluff about that fence. They built it to
keep us--to keep us----"

"Well, maybe," says Katherine. "But they can't."

"They built it to show us our place," says Bonnie Bell, brave as you
like. "They didn't think that--they didn't know----"

"It was cruel," says Katherine, red in her face now, she was so mad
about it. "I'm glad you mentioned that fence--I couldn't; but all my
people said it was the meanest thing ever done. It was vulgar! It was
low! That's what my mommah says. We were always sorry for you, but we
didn't know how---- But, Honey, I'm glad you planted the ivy on it. It
shows you're forgiving."

"We're not," says Bonnie Bell. "We're far from it--at least my dad. He's
awful when you cross him. He won't quit--he'll never quit!"

"We all know that," says Katherine. "Everybody in the Row does."

"I don't know how much you know," says Bonnie Bell. "I don't know how
much people have talked about us."

"Well, I can tell you one thing," says Katherine. "We heard some of the
talk; and I want to say that it isn't favorable to the Wisners. There
are others in town besides them. Tell me, Honey, aren't you all the way
American?"

"Yes," says Bonnie Bell. "I can be a Daughter of the Revolution and a
Colonial Dame, and a Patriot Son, and all the rest, so far as having
ancestors is concerned."

"Could you?" says Katherine. "Then I rather guess you will!"

"We go back to the Carrolls a good deal, in Maryland," says Bonnie Bell.
"You see, my mother married my father and went West, and out there we
didn't pay much attention to such things. I didn't know they cared so
much here. But my people were first settlers and builders, and always
in the army and navy."

"How perfectly dear!" says Katherine. "We'll start you in as a Daughter;
that'll make Old Lady Wisner mad, but she can't help it--mommah will
take care of that. Then we'll make you a Dame next--that'll help things
along. And when you're in two or three more of these Colonial
businesses, where the Wisners can't get--well, then I'll be more
comfortable, for one.

"I don't blame your poppah for feeling savage towards the Wisners," says
she after a while. "Who're the Wisners anyways? Carrolls--huh! I guess
that's about as good as coming from Iowa and carrying your dinner in a
pail while you're getting your start selling sausage casings in a
basket. I don't think a packer's much nohow. We're in leather.

"But, good-by," says she now. "I've got to go home. I've got to tell
mommah to get those papers started. Pretty soon I'll bring Tom over."

Nothing much happened around our place for a little while. I didn't see
nobody from the Wisners' and I didn't care to. Kind of from force of
habit I used to walk up and down the line fence once in a while, just to
have a eye on it. I done that one evening and walked back towards our
garridge, for it seemed to me I heard some sort of noise down that way.
It wasn't far from the end of the wall that was close to the lake. I
set down and waited. It seemed to me like someone was trying to break a
hole through the wall. I could hear it plunk, plunk, like someone was
using a chisel or crowbar, soft and easy, like he didn't want to be
heard. I waited to see what would happen.

By and by I seen a brick fall out on our side of the wall. I just picked
it up and set there waiting to bust in the head of anybody that come
through after the brick if he couldn't explain what he was about.

The fellow on the other side kept on working. He pulled bricks out on
his side now. By and by I could see light through--it wasn't right dark
in the yard yet. He pulled out the bricks and made quite a little hole
close to the ground.

"Hello there!" says he, soft like. "Is that you, Curly?" says he.

"Who're you and what do you want?" says I.

"I am the hired man, Jimmie," says he. "I've come back."

"The hell you have!" says I. "Well, I can't talk to you. What made you
come back? Where you been?"

"Out West," says he, "on the Circle Arrow Ranch."

"What's that!" says I. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. I've been working out there. I found I could rope a
little and I didn't always fall off a horse. You see, the old man owns
a lot in that company."

"Why didn't you tell me you was going out there?" says I. "And how come
these folks to take you back?"

"They couldn't help it," he says. "I told you I had too much on them.
You'd ought to see how things is going out there! They had to take me
back."

"Well, what are you breaking a hole in our fence for?" says I. "Quit it!
Do you want to get buried in a sunk garden, instead of on the lone
prairee? Leave our fence alone."

"Your fence? It's our fence. Don't I know all about it? It was a damn
shame, Curly."

"What business is it of yours?" says I to him.

"Well, I hate to see the family I work for make such fools of
theirselfs." He was setting up close to the wall now, looking through.
He went on talking: "If I put the bricks in again on my side, and you on
yours, who'll know the hole's there?"

"We've got ivy on our side," says I. "It's green and 'most to the top of
the wall. But I don't know now why you broke that hole through."

"Curly," says he, "I want to let Peanut through, so's he can have a good
friendly fight with my dog once in a while. Sometimes I'll pull some of
the bricks out. I reckon Peanut'll do the rest."

"Peanut'll not do no more visiting," says I; "and I've got orders not to
have any sort of truck with anyone on your side of the fence."

He set quite a while quiet, and then says he:

"Is that so, Curly?" says he.

"It certainly is," I answered him. "When a thing starts, till it's
settled you can't stop Old Man Wright. Sometimes he pays funeral
expenses," says I, "but when anybody gets on the prod with him I never
saw him show no sign of beginning to quit. He can't," says I; "none of
them Wrights can."

"Do you mean they're all that way, Curly?"

"The whole kit of 'em, me included," says I, "and the servants within
our gate, and our ox, and our hired girl, and all our hired men."

"Even the maidservant within your gates?" ast he of me.

"Shore!" says I. "Her especial and worst of any."

"But you don't take no hand in this war?" says he.

"That's just what I do," says I to him. "That's what a foreman's for.
You'd better plug up that hole and stay on your own side of the fence."

He set quiet for a time and then he says:

"I'm darned if I do!"

"Good-by, Jimmie," says I.

"Oh, shucks!" says he. "I'll see you from time to time."

I didn't make no answer but to put the bricks back in the hole on our
side.

Now for reasons of my own, not wanting to rile Old Man Wright, I didn't
say nothing to him about this hole in the fence. Neither did I say
anything to Bonnie Bell about the hired man having came back; because
she was doing right well the last day or so, brighter and more cheerful
than she had been. That, of course, was because of what Katherine'd told
her about her brother Tom. Any girl likes to hear about a young man
coming around, of course. Far as any of us could tell, Tom Kimberly
might be all right.

Bonnie Bell now, all at once, she taken to wanting to go on the lake
with her boat, and she insists our chauffore and her and me must go down
and fix up the boat. We didn't none of us like it especial, but she said
she hadn't been on the lake for so long she wanted to go once more
before it got too cold.

I didn't know nothing about boats, but sometimes I'd go down to the
boathouse and watch Bonnie Bell while she was tinkering with the engine
or something. One day I went down to the boathouse about the middle of
the afternoon, expecting to meet her out on the dock. All at once I hear
voices out there, one of them hers. I stopped then, wondering who could
of got on our dock.

There wasn't no way from the Wisners' yard to get on our dock now,
because the door into their boathouse had been nailed up. The wall run
clear down to their garridge, and their garridge faced onto the
boathouse, which was lower down. The only way anybody could get on our
dock from their place was to get in a boat and come round from the lake.
Then it would of been easy.

I said I heard Bonnie Bell's voice. She was talking; who she was talking
to, I didn't know.

"It's all wrong!" says she. "You are presuming too much. Of course I
pulled you out of the lake--I would anybody; but your employers are not
friends of ours. Even if they were you've no right in the world to speak
to me."

Then I heard another voice. I knew it was Jimmie, their hired man. He
spoke out and I heard him plain.

"I know I haven't," says he, "none in the world; but I've got to."

"You must not!" says she. "Go away!"

"I'll not," says he. "I can't help it! I tell you I can't help it."

Me being foreman, I reached around now to get hold of a brick or
something. I couldn't help hearing what they said.

He'd been ordered off; yet here he was talking to Bonnie!

XV

THE COMMANDMENT THAT WAS BROKE

I stood close up to the boathouse door and was going to step out, but
what the hired man was saying to Bonnie Bell was so nervy I had to stop.
Besides, I wanted to hear what she'd say to show him his place.

"From the first minute I saw you," says he, "I couldn't help it. I swore
then I'd meet you some day, and sometime----"

"Is this the way?" I heard her say, low.

"It's the only way I have," says he. "If there was a better, don't you
think I'd take it? But what chance did I have? I had to make some way; I
wouldn't of been any sort of man if I hadn't."

She must just of stood looking at him. I couldn't see.

"I had to find some way to tell you," says he. "What part have I had in
this foolish squabble? Was that my fault? I'm only a servant now; but
give me a chance to break out of that. Why, when I was out West----"

"Were you out West?" says she, sudden.

"Yes; in the Yellow Bull Valley, among the cowmen--among the real
people. You came from that valley yourself."

"Yes, we did," says she; "and we'd far better of stayed there."

"You couldn't of stayed there," says he. "And besides, if you'd stayed
there I'd never of met you, or you me."

"Indeed! Was that all my fortune--to meet the servant of my father's
enemy?"

"It's all of mine! I'm not your enemy. But suppose now I went to your
father and told him--what would he do?"

"He'd maybe kill you," says Bonnie Bell simply; "or else Curly would."

"I wouldn't blame either of them," says he. "I don't want to sneak
around. I'm going away again----"

"What made you come back?" she says.

"Because I was sick in my heart. Because I thought I could look over
once in a while and see you. But when I came back, here was this cursed
fence and I couldn't see you any more. I thought I'd go mad. Maybe I
have; I don't know."

"With or without the fence," says Bonnie Bell, "how could our circles
cross, yours and mine?"

"Circles!" says he. "Circles! What are circles? I've heard this talk of
circles all my life," says he. "I've seen it going on all around me.
It's rot--rot! It's my misfortune to find one so far above me."

"My money?" says she, scornful. "I've a lot of it."

He didn't say a word to that for a long time.

"Did you really think that of me for a minute?" says he at last.

"You take it for granted that I've thought of you at all?" says she.

"I wouldn't of dared," says he--and it sounded like the truth, through
the door. "Don't class me that way!"

"How can a girl tell?" says she. "Men talk like this to girls----"

"Have they talked to you? Who was it?"

"My social opportunities," says she slow and bitter-like, "seem to be
confined to our neighbors' gardener."

"Don't!" says he. "Oh, don't! I don't want to see you hurt, even by your
own tongue."

I never'd heard any man hand out any talk of this sort to any girl
before. It was right interesting and I was glad I listened.

"How can a girl tell?" says she, like she was talking to herself.

"Shorely she can't tell all at once," he answers. "I'd never ask you to
do more than wait. I'd want to go away and stay away till I could come
in at your front door and be welcome," says he. "I wouldn't ask you to
decide one thing now. But, as for me, I decided everything long ago."

She didn't say nothing.

"As to your money," says he after a while, "listen to me. Look at
me--look close. Look into my eyes. Am I not honest? Tell me--if truth
like mine can be mistaken for deceit, then what chance has any man on
earth?"

She didn't answer, and he goes on like he had stepped up closer--I don't
know but what he did.

"Look into my eyes," says he. "Look at me close. Maybe that'll help me
some, for shorely you can see how much I----"

"Don't!" says she. "Don't!"

I don't believe she looked into his eyes at all.

"I wouldn't touch you," says he. "I wouldn't touch your hand--I wouldn't
touch the hem of your garment. It wouldn't be right. It maybe ain't
right for me to think of meeting you again; but it's right this once."

She didn't answer at all. He come to what seemed to trouble him.

"Is it the money?" he says again. "What's money if you've got nothing
else?"

"Not much," says she; "not very much."

"I've not coveted it," says he. "It's another commandment I've broke.
I've coveted that which was my neighbor's. I've coveted you--no more, so
much! If you and I had a shack on the Yellow Bull out there, and forty
acres to start with," says he, "out where the sun shines all the time,
and the wind is sweet, and the mountains rise up around you----"

"Don't!" says she again. "Don't! Please go away--I can't stand that."

I couldn't stand it neither; so I opened the door.

XVI

HOW I WAS FOREMAN

They jumped apart--or farther apart--when I walked out. They wasn't
holding hands, but she must of been looking at him and him at her.

"Miss Wright," says I, quiet--the first time I ever called her Miss
Wright in all my life--"Miss Wright," says I, "come up to the house."

"Curly," says she, "oh, don't--don't!"

But she seen I didn't have no gun.

"Get across there quick!" says I to him.

"You overheard!" says he. "You overheard what I've been saying?"

"All of it," says I. "It was my business to. Of all the low-down things
any man ever done in all his life, that's what you done now. I heard it
all."

"Stop!" says he. "I won't stand that for a minute."

"You'll stand it for a lot longer than that," says I. "If you show this
side the fence again I'll kill you!"

"Curly!" says he. "Why, Curly!"--like he was surprised. "Is it like
that?"

"That's what it's like," says I. "Don't never doubt we can take care of
our womenfolks. It's my own fault this has happened. I ought to of
watched her closter. I ought never to of allowed you on our dock, let
alone mixing with you. I thought you was more of a man than this," says
I.

When I said that Bonnie Bell jumped and throwed her arms around my neck,
and held on with both hands.

"Curly," says she, "stop! I'll not have this. Stop, I say!"

"You'll have this, and a lot more," says I to her, "till this thing is
settled. Let me alone with him. Haven't your pa and me give up our lives
for you? It's a fine trade you're trying to make; to trade us for a
low-down coward like this. They built that fence, not us. Hell could
freeze before your pa or me would ever cross it; but here you're talking
the way you done with their hired man--that has sneaked around here to
meet you."

He didn't give back none, though he couldn't talk at once.

"Go slow!" says he. "Curly, be careful! I didn't have any other chance."

"Any other chance?" says I. "For what? To make love to a girl that ain't
had much experience--to make love to her because she's got a load of
money? I've seen some sort of dirt done in my life," says I, "but this
is the lowest down I ever seen," says I.

"And Bonnie Bell," says I--she still had me around the neck, holding my
arms down, and I didn't want to hurt her--"how'll I tell the old man?
You know I've got to come through with him. You, the girl we loved so
much, Bonnie Bell," says I, "we never thought you'd class yourself below
your own level."

"She hasn't!" says he, right sudden then. "It wasn't her fault. She
hasn't promised a thing to me, and you know that. She's not to blame for
a thing, and you know that too. She hasn't said a word she couldn't say
before all the world. What more do you want? She's too good a girl to
get the worst of it. Her father's too good a man to get the worst of it
too. She'd never let him."

"She won't have to do that," says I. "I'll take care of that. That's my
business."

"Curly," says she, "what are you going to do? Don't you love my father
at all--or me? You're like another father to me. And I've loved you; and
I always will, whatever you do to me."

I couldn't put her arms down--I wasn't very strong, because I was
thinking.

"If you tell my father," says she, "you'd break his heart. Cover it up
for me, Curly--I've not promised anything. But, oh, Curly, I didn't
mean harm to anyone; and I'll never be happy any more."

"You see what you've done!" says I to him after a while.

He got white now, instead of red.

"How can I make it up? I can't stand to hear her talk that way," he
says.

"Whose business is it how she talks?" says I to him. "Damn you! What
right have you to come here and make her unhappy for a minute? Didn't
you know how we loved her?"

"Everyone does," says he. "Till I die I'll do that. How can I help it
any more than you can? And if I've hurt her now," says he, "God do so to
me and more also. But I've declared myself--I'll not take back a word. I
didn't lie then and I won't now."

He seemed game. Still, so long as it's just talking, you can't always
tell how much of a bluff a man is throwing.

"If it'll make her happy for me to go away and never come back," says
he, "I'll do that. I don't want to play any game except on the square.
Don't start anything that can't be ever mended," says he.

"It's started now," says I. "Maybe you can talk a girl down, but you
can't us."

"What're you going to do, Bonnie Bell?" says I to her, and I taken her
hands now in mine. "You've heard me and you've heard him. Which do you
want, him or us--us that's loved you and give you everything we had, or
him, this here coward, that come in the back way--our worst enemy's
hired man? You got to choose."

I felt her slip loose from my neck then. She'd kept tight hold of me all
the time, so I couldn't do anything. I looked down at her, and she was
all loose and white. I reckon she fainted, though I never seen anyone do
that before.

I laid her down on the boards, and I was so cold mad clean through now I
couldn't of said a word. I've felt that way before. There ain't no law
then. But he was white as she was.

"Curly," says he, "what have we done to the poor child?"

"She ain't your pore child," says I; and, with her in my arms and me
helpless, I felt hot in my eyes. "She's our pore child. Shut up and go
home!"

He didn't go home, but went and got some water in his hat.

"It's cruel, cruel--it's all been cruel for her, who deserves the best
that life could give. Can't you believe me, man?" says he.

She couldn't hear us now, and even the water I poured on her face didn't
wake her up. I wouldn't let him touch her.

"Lord help us all!" says I. "For now it's a hard thing to say what's
best. Tell me," says I, "was there anything I didn't hear? Did she make
any sort of promise to you?"

"Not a word," says he--"not a word."

"That's lucky," says I. "The Circle Arrow never went back on its word.
I'm glad she didn't promise you nothing," says I.

"There's nothing matters now," he says.

He set back on his heels, looking at me in a way I couldn't stand--with
us both bending over her, trying to bring her to.

"I'm better than you think," says he, after a little while. "All this
happened because things got criss-crossed."

"You queered the game the way you played it," says I to him. "The Circle
Arrow plays wide open, with all the cards on the table. It beats hell
how the luck runs in a square game sometimes! The front door is the
place for a man that talks to a girl--like Katherine Kimberly comes in,
or her brother, Tom."

"Does she know him?" says he, sudden.

"That's our business," says I. I still was pouring water on Bonnie Bell.

"Yes," says he, "that's true. He's not your enemy's servant."

About then Bonnie Bell begun to move her hands and I raised her up
against my knees. She set there looking him in the face.

"Kid," says I, "you needn't rub your eyes and ast, 'Where am I?' I'll
tell you. You're right in the middle of one hell of a muss!"

XVII

HIM AND THE FRONT DOOR

I sent the kid up stairs to her room to think things over. Then I set
down in our ranch room to think things over myself, because I didn't
hardly know what to do.

While I was setting there in come Old Man Wright hisself from down town,
and he was so happy I was shore he'd thought out some new devilment for
his neighbor Wisner.

"Well, Curly," says he, "what do you know?"

"I don't know nothing that's pleasant," says I.

"Huh!" says he. "Don't you like the grub here no more, or what is it?"

"I don't like nothing about the place no more," says I. "I wish you'd
foreclose on the Circle Arrow right away and us all go back there," says
I. "Of course you wouldn't, but that's where you overlook a big bet,
Colonel."

He looks at me serious.

"Is it as bad as that, Curly?" says he. "Sometimes I feel thataway
myself, although along of me being so busy I can stand it better'n you
maybe. But what kick have you got? You ain't got nothing to do--take it
all around, I never seen a foreman that had less," says he.

"Huh!" says I. "That's all you know."

"Don't I know all there is to know?" he ast me.

"No, you don't," says I. "Don't I have to ride that line fence of ours
and ain't it the worst one I ever traveled in all my life?"

"Don't let that bother you, son," says he. "I'll do the worrying about
that."

Now when he said this I begun to think of all he'd done for me all my
life; of how he'd paid all the bills, and taken the responsibility, and
give me my wages. I didn't want to rake him up the shoulder now by
telling him what I was just about going to tell him. I knowed if I told
him that his girl had anyways gone against his will it'd nigh kill
him--and as for this! But I argued I had to tell him. Then I thought
that what a cowpuncher concludes deliberate is mighty apt to be the
wrong thing. So where does that leave me? For the first time in my life
I didn't know whether to back or copper my own bet.

The old man staved it off a little while, anyway. He goes over to the
table and begins to fill his pipe.

"Well, Curly," says he, "I couldn't foreclose on the Circle Arrow if I
wanted to now--they paid their deferred payment for this year. Old
Wisner, he got backing from three banks and he come through. That
leaves only one payment more. Somebody's going to be out in the cold
before long; but it won't be us."

"No," says I; "it'll be them grangers."

"It ain't them that's going to get the worst of it--it's Old Man
Wisner," says he. "As for us, we can't go back there no more--we're city
folks now. I've got to stay here to watch Old Man Wisner a while and
you've got to ride that fence.

"Where's Bonnie Bell?" says he then.

"Huh!" says I. "Where is she? That's what I'd like to know too."

"Come to that, after all," says he, smoking and looking into the
fireplace, "the girl's got me guessing lately. She don't look well. Now
she's up and now she's down--her actions don't track none. If I didn't
know better I'd say she was in love. That couldn't be, for there ain't
been no chance."

"Well," says I, "there's other kinds of deferred payments, ain't there,
Colonel?"

"Maybe so," says he, sort of sighing. "We'll let it run as it lays; we
can't help it much. Mostly a handsome girl finds somebody somewhere or
somehow; or sometime----"

"Ain't that the God's truth, Colonel!" says I.

I was just on the point of telling him all I knew.

"If only she was safe from the sharks!" says he. "If I found any young
man that I thought was after her money, not after her--why, I don't know
what I'd do to him!"

"I know what you'd do, Colonel," says I; and I was glad I hadn't told
him.

"Well, maybe. The trouble is to find any young man that's halfway as
good as her, with some sort of folks back of him and some sort of way of
making a living. You see, Curly, you can't tell much about things ten or
twenty years ahead. A pore man may get money or a rich man may lose
money. Now her ma married me when I didn't have no chance on earth ever
to be anybody or to have any money; but we got on and was right
happy--anyways I was--and I wasn't rich then.

"I'm awful rich now, Curly," says he, "though I don't know as I'm any
happier. It bores me. For instance, I was looking around today for a
chance to invest a little more money; not much, only about half of this
here last deferred payment that come in--all Old Man Wisner's money--and
I seen in the papers that we haven't got no potash works in America to
amount to much, and that potash is shore worth plenty of money--whatever
potash is. So I went out to look over things and I concluded to invest a
few hundred thousand dollars in making potash. I've got a good man, with
specs, that knows how to make it out of seaweed, or something that
grows raw and is plenty, I reckon. I suppose pretty soon we'll be making
forty to fifty per cent; maybe more. That's what bothers me--I can't
find no hard game to play. I can't hardly take no interest in life.

"I was looking around some more and I seen where this country ain't got
no dye works--the kind of dyes they make outen coal tar, which is made
outen coal. Yet we've got plenty of coal and I own several coal mines
out in Wyoming. I got another man, with specs, and I shouldn't wonder if
we'd be making plenty of dyes before long, same as they used to import.

"Well," says he, filling up his pipe again, "I'd be happy enough fooling
around this way, pushing in a few white checks once in a while--a few
hundred thousand dollars. Anyways, I'd like it if I could lose once in a
while--but then there's the kid."

"It comes around to her after all, Colonel, don't it?" says I.

"That's right," he says. "I play the game; she uses the winnings. She's
going to be one of the richest girls in this whole town."

Seems like I couldn't get to tell him what I ought to. Every time he
came around to the same place, talking about the kid. He didn't know as
much as I did. I knew what'd make Old Man Wisner the happiest man
alive--he'd feel that way if he knowed his hired man had got thick with
our girl! He'd of encouraged that any way he could if he'd knowed
anything about it. That would of pleased him. I had in my mind, too, how
Bonnie Bell had looked at that hired man. So I set there, not having
said a word yet and not daring to. It just seemed like I couldn't tell
the old man.

It was getting towards night now before long and I hadn't made no break
at all. I set and set, and didn't have no nerve. By and by it was too
late to say anything that night.

We heard Bonnie Bell coming down the staircase, and we went to the door
to meet her, like we did usual, because we liked to do that; she was so
pretty when she was ready for dinner. The servants didn't look up to her
pa and me very much, but they'd jump through hoops all the time for her.

She was dressed all up now in a pale blue dress, some sort of soft silk,
and she had on all her diamonds, for she was shining all over. Her hair
was high up and it had a little band on it, and a little pile of it
stuck up behind on her head. Her neck was cut low, like they wore 'em at
the hotel where we lived once, and her dress didn't have no sleeves in
it. She had rings on her fingers, though not no bells on her toes--only
little blue slippers; and her socks was pale blue, like we could see
when she come down the stairs.

I don't expect there was any handsomer woman in the world than she was
then--they don't make 'em any handsomer. We stood looking at her, us two
cowmen, both in clothes that was always getting mussed up, and with
tobacco in the pockets. We couldn't say a word. We got scared of her, I
said; you would, often, when you looked at Bonnie Bell, she was so
pretty. Yet she didn't know she had such looks.

"Daughter," says Old Man Wright, and he went up to her slow, like he was
afraid of her, "you're very beautiful tonight," says he. "What makes you
pale? You're a mighty fine girl. Dast you kiss your old pa before he
goes in and gets into togs fit to eat with you?"

She looks at me and then at him, and she knows I haven't said nothing
about that talk with the hired man. She was pale and didn't smile. She
went up to her pa like she was tired--she didn't have much color that
night in her face--and she just puts up her arms around her pa's neck
and laid her head down on his shoulder, and didn't say a word. She
didn't cry; she just let her head lay there.

I seen his arm go around on her bare shoulders easylike--he didn't
hardly touch her for fear she'd break; and he didn't say a word. He was
that sort of man that almost any sort of woman would like to put her
arms around his neck and lay her head on him if she was in trouble.

"What is it, Honey?" says he at last.

"Why, nothing, dad," says she. "I love you--that's all. You believe it,
don't you?"

"Will you always, sis?" says he, sort of funny.

"Always," says she, quiet. "Now," says she, "run off and get dressed up.
Have you forgotten that the Kimberlys are coming for dinner tonight with
us? Curly, you must go get on some dark clothes, you know."

You see, I was one of the family. I maybe gave them plenty of trouble,
but they never'd let me eat anywheres but with them all the time. By
this time I'd learned quite a few things from Bonnie Bell--about how not
to put a napkin up too high, or to break my bread up into little pieces
and pile them up, or to pour out my coffee, or to use the same spoon for
coffee and other vittles, or to sidle up my plate for the last drop of
soup there was in it--oh, several tricks like that; though I knew the
game was a heap complicated and I hadn't learned it all yet.

She looks at me when I went out the door and I shook my head to show I
hadn't said nothing. She set down, all in her silk and her shining rings
and things, right on our old hide lounge; and she was looking at our
painting of the Yellow Bull Valley and the old ranch house. I left her
there, all in her diamonds, her hair tied up high--about the richest
girl in Chicago and, like enough, the miserablest right then. But she
didn't have nothing on me at that.

When we come back, all fixed up the best we could, she was still setting
there. She was pretty--Lord, how pretty!--but sad.

She gets up now and begins to laugh and talk right fast to the old man,
and by and by, before anything broke, Old Man Kimberly and Old Lady
Kimberly drifted in.

"The young folks'll be over before long," says he; "we didn't wait for
'em, because I just wanted a taste of the old bourbon that I find here
and can't find anywheres else. Where did you get it, Colonel?" says he.

Most everybody called him Colonel now, from me doing it first, and then
Katherine.

"We had a few barrels out on the old ranch," says the boss. "A little of
it escaped in the massacree. I'm glad you like it."

It come now about time for dinner, which was always pulled off on the
tick of the clock. On the ranch in camp the cook always calls "Grub
pile!" for the hands. In the home ranch he's more particular, and he
says, "Come and git it!" when dinner's ready. But here, in our new
house, our butler, William, always'd gumshoe in and say it so low you
couldn't hardly hear him: "Dinner is served, Miss Wright." But, as them
kids was a little late in coming, Old Man Kimberly finds time to take
another nip.

"Why, Wilfred!" says his wife to him, "I'm surprised!"

"It's funny how you're surprised," says he, chuckling in his shirt
front; "but I'm glad to have you keep up my reputation by saying you're
surprised."

Somehow it was with them like it is with plenty of folks in the
States--the women always seem finer, more delercate than the men; yet
they seem to like men that ain't fussy. Old Man Kimberly was a good
sort; but to look at her you'd wonder why she married him. She always
set up straight, away from a chair or a sofa back, and she had a face
that was clean-cut, like one of them cameo faces on cuff buttons.
Katherine was some like her pa, and a good sort too.

"How sweet you look tonight!" says Old Lady Kimberly to Bonnie Bell
after a time.

She always seemed to want to reach out and touch Bonnie Bell, or kiss
her once in a while--they natural liked each other--Bonnie Bell
especial, from never having no ma of her own, very much.

But after a time our William come to the door and stood there like he
was a pointer dog and had found some birds; and says he, with a stop
between, like he always did:

"Miss Kimberly--ahum! Mr. Thomas Kimberly--ahum!"

XVIII

HOW TOM STACKED UP

I reckon if Katherine's brother, Tom Kimberly, had of knowed how much we
was waiting for a look at him he might of been some fussed up about it;
but when our William brought him and Katherine in he didn't seem
rattled.

He was a right tallish young fellow, maybe twenty-four years or
thereabouts, slim, and with a wide mouth. He had a good deal of brown
hair, which he combed back from his forehead, without no part in it. He
was dressed up like city folks do for dinner, and his necktie wasn't
tied careless, but right careful. He looked a good deal like a picture
in a tailor shop. His hands didn't even seem to bother him like mine do
me sometimes--I often wisht a man could have forty pockets to put all
his hands into.

When he seen Bonnie Bell he lit up. Katherine hurried him over and put
her hand on Bonnie Bell's arm.

"Honey," says she to Bonnie Bell, "I've brought over my brother Tom; and
I want you to like him and I want him to like you."

"That's going to be the easiest thing you know," says he smiling.

He had right good teeth. Bonnie Bell she give him her hand, her arm
straight out in front of her, and I didn't think she shook hands very
hard; but he did. He kept on looking at her like he was fascernated. It
was plain to see that the kid had him on the ropes in the first round.

We went on to the big dining-room right soon. This was the first time
the Kimberlys had ever et at our house, except cookies and tea and
things in the parlor or in the ranch room. When Mrs. Kimberly come into
our big dining-room she taken one look up and down. Maybe she'd been
thinking it was like the ranch room all the way through. That showed how
little she knew about Bonnie Bell.

They was arranged in pairs as long as the women lasted--this Tom and
Bonnie Bell, of course, together; and Mrs. Kimberly and Old Man Wright;
and then Katherine and me and Old Man Kimberly. William helped Old Lady
Kimberly and Bonnie Bell set down, like they had rheumatism, and I done
what I could for Katherine, her and me being pretty good pals. Old Man
Kimberly found his cocktail without no help. Right soon he set down to
have a pleasant time, him.

We had a good dining-room--large, with white trimmings--and some
carpets that cost as much as two thousand dollars each, and chairs that
matched the table, and plenty of pictures.

I been around now a lot among our best people and I notice that unless
you've got some pictures of sheep in your house you're no good. Any
artist just natural has to paint sheep; yet that's the meanest anermal
there is, and I don't see why a cowman especial should have sheep in his
house. But we done so because it was correct--though I've never et sheep
meat. Also, a couple of gondolas, by some Italian, near the sheep.

Besides them, if you've got a good house you've got to have one picture
about twilight on a lake, with a broken tree on it and some weeds, and a
crane standing there like it didn't have no friends. We had one of them
crane pictures too.

When Old Lady Kimberly seen we had sheep and gondolas and weeds and
cranes in our house, same as anybody else, she seemed to feel more
comfortable. I told Katherine some of those things I'd found out about
art and she come near choking in her soup, and said I was awful funny,
though I was serious.

"Everything you've got," says she, "is perfectly lovely."

"She done it," says I, which was true. The old man and me, if we was
left alone, would never of had even a picture of sheep in the whole
house.

Like enough you've been at dinners in cities where they don't have
everything on the table in big dishes, like at a ranch, but a little at
a time; so you've got to guess frequent whether you're going to get
enough to eat out of things that's coming on later. We was pretty well
trained, Old Man Wright and me, since we come to our new house, for
Bonnie Bell and William and all the rest run a regular city system on
us.

Bonnie Bell was easy as Mrs. Kimberly would of been at her house. She
didn't have to say a word to William; he shore was some butler--I reckon
he buttled as good as anyone in the Row. I reckon he was born a orphan,
he looked so sad.

We had some soup made out of turtle, which is better'n you'd think, to
look at a turtle. Afterward was fish I couldn't name. Then there was
ducks and potatoes, cooked together so you couldn't tell 'em apart, and
considerable other birds with things put on; and alfalfa, with kerosene
on it, maybe. After a while comes soft cheese, with strawberries, and
yet softer cheese, with little onions cut in it, if you liked that
better--I can't remember all them things now or how they come, but we
was a couple of hours there and got considerable to eat before we quit.
Also, Old Man Kimberly got plenty to drink. He says to the boss:

"You'll excuse me, Colonel," says he, "but I can't help saying a word
in favor of your choice in wines."

And then--"Wilfred!" says his wife, as though it wasn't polite to say
you liked things.

Since Katherine was talking to me all the time, and since Tom couldn't
see nothing but Bonnie Bell, I reckon the whole party was pretty well
suited.

After dinner, while we was setting in the ranch room--which they all
liked so well--and could have sherry or coffee, or both, or maybe
Scotch, Mrs. Kimberly kept on saying to the old man:

"Wilfred, I'm surprised!"

"So'm I, my dear," says he--"surprised that we've never been here all
the time before. You may mark us down as steadies now," says he.

We had in the middle of the house, offen the ranch room, a long room,
with a piano in it, and a smooth floor, and rugs that could be easy
pushed away. Nothing'd do for them folks but they must go to dancing
now. Sometimes Katherine played the piano and sometimes Bonnie Bell; she
shore could slug a piano plenty when she wanted. She didn't get to play
much, because Tom he wanted to dance with her all the time--turkeys'
trots, I think they called it, or fox hops, or something of the kind.

Seems like she could do that, too, for she had lessons downtown. When
Katherine got Old Man Wright to dance with her there wasn't no one left
to play; so we set a music box going, and Katherine made me play on a
Jew's-harp too.

Tom Kimberly certainly was up in all the late steps of dancing; that was
one thing he could do. While him and Bonnie Bell was dancing I could see
all the old folks looking at them quietlike. It was plain that he was
mighty hard hit with Bonnie Bell. Old Man Wright he'd look at him once
in a while--right close too. As for Bonnie Bell, she was pleasant, like
she always was; but it didn't seem to me she laughed as much as usual.
We was all of us showing off our goods.

When they come to go away, Katherine she hugged Bonnie Bell tighter than
ever, and Old Man Kimberly held her hand for quite a while.

"You'll take pity on a old man, won't you," says he, "and come to see us
often? You really must."

"Yes, my dear," says Mrs. Kimberly; "come and liven us up sometimes.
It's been very delightful to see you young people enjoy yourselves so
much--and you old people too," says she, and laughed at her husband, who
maybe was some illuminated.

It was plain enough to me when they went away that our place had turned
out better'n they thought it would. Bonnie Bell, too, if she'd been on
inspection for them, same as Tom Kimberly was with us, certainly'd more
than made good. Likewise, I suppose our sheep and gondola pictures must
of made good too. We couldn't exactly of been classed as heathen--not
unless me and Old Man Wright was.

We didn't say nothing to Bonnie Bell about these things, and pretty soon
she kissed her pa good night and went upstairs to her room. The old man
and me set for a while thinking things over.

"What do you think of him, Curly?" says he to me after a while.

"Well," says I, "it ain't just as though the cat had brought him in.
He's good-looking," says I, "and he can dance; and he's a pleasant
fellow enough. I only sort of got it in for people that drink cocktails
instead of straight liquor and push their hair back thataway."

"Well now," he went on, "you've got to allow for differences in
different places. Riding and roping ain't so important in Chicago as
dining and dancing--not among our best people," says he. "You've got to
take account of that. A girl might do a lot worse."

"There ain't nobody good enough for Bonnie Bell," says I, "when it comes
to that; but I was just sort of thinking I like a man to know something
about riding and shooting, and that sort of thing, as well as dancing."

"Curly," says he, "you said your pa was a hard-shell?"

"Yes," says I.

"A hard-shell Presbyterian?" says he. "Anyhow, your folks must of been
right exacting. Now don't be too hard on young folks."

"Listen to me, Colonel," says I. "Suppose you had two of 'em right
here--one that didn't have no family nor no money, but took to ranch
work sort of natural; and one that could dance and dine like you say.
One of these men parts his hair on one side and one combs it back,
without no part. Which one of 'em would you like most?"

"I'd have to see both men and size 'em up," says he. "But what makes you
ask? The other kind of young man you're talking about ain't showed up
yet. Besides, one thing that favors Tom is he don't have to marry for
money. Bless you; he ain't thinking of her money--not one dollar; just
thinking of her, right the way she is. He's gone--that's what he is."

"That's so," says I; "that's certainly so. But how about her?"

"They all take their chances," says Old Man Wright, solemn, after a
while. "Anyway you can fix it a woman takes a chance. She's in a gamble
all her whole born life. She's a gamble herself and she has to play in
a gamble from the time she begins to toddle till the time they fold her
hands. She can't tell if her husband's going to stick; she can't tell if
her husband's going to make good; she can't tell how her kids is going
to turn out--that's all a gamble too.

"Do your best, Curly, and try your damnedest, there ain't no way you can
protect no woman against them gambles. If I wait for exactly the right
man to come along, that don't comb his hair back, how do I know he'll
ever come? If he does come maybe he'll have a eye on her bank roll, or
maybe he'll measure forty inches around his pants. Either one--ary
one--it's all a gamble for a girl.

"No," he went on; "about the only thing she can do, after all, is to use
her own head and her own heart. It ain't in the nature of things that
you can look ahead and see how the game's coming out for any girl--she
has to take her chances. We've got to stand by and see her do it. I
wisht it wasn't so. I loved her ma so much, and she looks so much like
her ma--why, I wisht--why, I wisht---- Damn it, don't I wisht it wasn't
such a dash-blamed, all-fired, hell-for-certain gamble for the kid!"

It wasn't no time for me to say anything about any hired man now! By and
by the old man quit looking into the fire and got up and went off to
bed.

XIX

THEM AND BONNIE BELL

It was a right fine place for me--probably not. Here I was, foreman
under full pay, and bound to play on the level with the boss, to say
nothing of the long time I'd worked for him. Of course I ought to tell
him all about that Wisners' hired man; but how could I?

It come to a question whether I liked the boss best or Bonnie Bell,
which is no fair place to put a man. Any man is apt to want to favor the
woman in a case like that. Come to get down to cases, I found I liked
Bonnie Bell a lot more than I ever'd realized I did. I was part her dad,
you know, and I couldn't stand to see her unhappy.

The trouble with a cowpuncher, like I said, is that he hasn't got no
real brains. I never used to notice that before, because it don't need
no brains to be a puncher, as long as you stick to the ranch. But here I
needed 'em right keen now.

Every day I walked the line fence; but there wasn't no work about that,
for the bricks was mostly stuck back in the hole, and the hired man that
had made all the trouble he kept on his own side--I didn't never see
him no more at all.

Bonnie Bell didn't say a word to me, nor me to her. I thought she ought
to come to me and talk things over; but she didn't. I knowed she hadn't
said a word to her pa, and I knowed I hadn't neither.

Tom he called three times the first week. I didn't care much for him
someways, though I knowed I ought. Bonnie Bell knowed she ought too. Her
pa knowed he ought too. If ever a fellow played in a game like that,
with all the ways greased for him, Tom was him.

Old Man Wright he turns to me one evening when we was setting by the
fire in our room, and he says to me:

"Well, Curly, how are you enjoying yourself now in this hard and
downtrod position that life has gave to you?"

"I don't like it none, Colonel," says I; "not none at all, nohow."

"Why don't you join a cowpunchers' union, then?" he ast. "Pshaw! This is
a good town and I rather like it. The game here is easy to beat--easier
than it was in Wyoming. For instance, just the other day I bought a
bunch of timber land out in Arizony--a place where I've never been nor
want to go, because they've got the tick fever down there scandalous,
and irrigation, which is a crime. Well, I only bought in on this timber
because a friend of mine wanted me to come in with him; and, figuring I
didn't know nothing about it, I allowed I certainly would lose for
once--I couldn't tell a pine tree from a spruce to save my life."

"Huh!" says I. "I suppose then somebody comes along and offers you twice
your money for it, maybe?"

"No; they didn't," says he. "I was hoping they would; but they didn't.
No, it was old Uncle Sam come along through that part of the state, and
he sees where we've got about all the best timber left on top of a range
of mountains in there, and he allows he ought to keep that timber from
ever being cut; so he buys it off us for four times what we give for
it--not twice. Uncle Sam pays in real money."

"Huh!" says I. "I never did have no trouble like you have, Colonel, to
find a game where I could lose money. I suppose maybe you made seegar
money out of that too?"

"A little, maybe. I only put in a little in the first place--two, three
hundred thousand dollars; not much. I was so in hopes I could lose some
money so as to sort of encourage me like, you know. But it's no use,
Curly!" And he sighs right heavy.

"You have my symperthy, Colonel," says I. "If ever you want any help,
so as to make the game more interesting, just let me set in and take
your hand for you--I'll guarantee on my record that I'll open your eyes
in ways how to lose money."

"All right, Curly," says he. "I'll ast you sometime and maybe copper
your bets. I always do that when my lawyer or my stockbroker gives me
any tips. It's the surest way in the world to make a killing in this
here, now, stock market.

"For instance, just the other day they told me down there to be shore
and buy a lot of Blue Mountain Steel, which certainly was backed by the
J. P. Morgan interests and was going to get a lot of war orders. So I
didn't--I bought Steel Boat Electric Common instead of that. I didn't
know anything about it, but somebody must of give them some war orders,
submarines of something. I notice our stock has rose around two hundred
per cent the last few weeks. I don't know why it is that things of been
going on this way," says he. "It bothers me a lot, Curly. Yet I only put
a few hundred thousand in that too.

"I'm setting aside two-thirds of all I make in this here city in the
kid's name, Curly," says he. "It's a five per cent trust for keeps. It's
getting to be something awful how much that fund of hers is! And, the
best I can do, I can't help its increasing right along. There don't
seem to be no way in which we can get broke and go back to honest work
again, such as raising cows--though making four calves grow where there
wasn't none in the sage brush before, that's really being useful in the
world, war or no war."

He set there for some time looking in the fire, serious, and he come
around again to the same old place.

"Curly," says he, "if there is any created critter on this human
footstool that I hate and despise, and that every he-man in the world
hates and despises, it's the man that'll marry a girl for her money.
Look at them dukes and things that come over here and marry our American
girls. I never shot a duke, but I will if one of 'em blows in here and
starts anything like that with our girl."

"Maybe he won't come," says I. "You never can tell."

"Curly," says he, "you can always tell! Listen to me. There's just one
thing certain in the whole world--or two. If a girl's handsome men'll
come around. If she's rich men'll come around. They fall out of the sky.
They come up out of the ground. They break in through the fence----"

"What's that?" says I. "Colonel, what do you mean about fences?"

"I mean to say that there ain't no fence on earth you could build
that'd keep out young men from a handsome girl that's got money."

"Ain't that the God's truth, Colonel!" says I. "How come you to figure
that out?"

"How? How come me to break through the fence that was built around
Bonnie Bell's ma, back in Maryland, and carry her away from there? But
when I think that, like enough, some low-down cuss like me'll come
around and break through my fence and carry off my girl, to take such
chances as her ma done--I tell you it makes the sweat come right out on
me."

"Well, Colonel," says I, "I reckon if any young man comes along here, no
matter if he gets in at the front door or crawls in under the fence,
he's got to show some revenue as well as be all right other ways?"

He set some time thinking before he answered.

"That's a right hard question, Curly," says he. "I wouldn't bar a poor
man if I was shore he was on the square. It wouldn't be so hard to
decide if she didn't have any money; but she has, and it can't be
concealed much longer."

He gets up and walks up and down a while talking.

"I declare, if I was a young man I'd never ast no rich young woman to
marry me at all. I'd be afraid to ast her, for fear she'd spot me or
accuse me, whichever way it was. I can't agree to no pore young man for
her, for I couldn't trust him. And I can't agree to no rich young man
for her, because none of 'em ain't worth a damm, as far as I've seen."

"It looks like a awful thing, Colonel, to have a cheeild that's rich and
lovely."

"Yes," says he; "and it ain't no joke neither."

"Well now, Colonel," says I, "take the houses in this Row where we live.
How many young men is there that we can tally out?"

He shook his head.

"There ain't none at all worth mentioning--believe me!" says he.

I did believe him. That left just Tom for the entry in the Bonnie Bell
Stakes. Looked like he couldn't lose.

XX

WHAT OUR WILLIAM DONE

Nobody said a word to Bonnie Bell about Tom Kimberly--neither her pa nor
me; for she was so quiet and shut up like we couldn't seem to break in
noways. We had to let it go like it laid on the board. One thing shore,
being in love or not being--whichever it was--had changed Bonnie Bell a
heap. She wasn't the same girl no more.

It used to be that Bonnie Bell didn't care so much for her piano as for
things out of doors, but now she taken to soaking that pore helpless
thing--sometimes sad and lonesome, and then again so hard she'd near
bust the keys. Then, maybe after she'd pasted the stuffing out of it a
few times, she'd set looking out of the window with her hands in her
lap--and so forgetful of her hands that they lay there, little as they
was, on their backs, with the fingers turned up on the ends, and even
her thumbs. It made me sorry.

Then again she'd cut off the music for days and go to reading books,
mostly in the window seat, her head puckered, like it was hard work.

"What're you reading, Hon?" says I one day. "Seems to me it must be a
bad-luck story. Also, why have you took to reading books upside down?"

"Nonsense!" says she. "I been brushing up in my sikeology," says she.
"That was one of our senior studies--the last year I had in Smith's, you
know."

"What's it for?" says I. "Does it say anything about whether it's going
to rain next Tuesday?" I ast her.

"Well, it's something needed to train us to meet the problems of life as
they arrive, Curly," says she.

"Does it show you how to look any young fellow in the face," says
I--"one that's got his hair combed back and no part in it, and playing
La Paloma on a banjo or a guitar, and guess what he's thinking about,
Bonnie?" says I.

She got a little red and tapped her foot on the carpet.

"What do you mean, Curly?" says she.

"Nothing," says I. "Only I was wondering if they'd put me in a long coat
at the wedding. I never was backed into one of 'em in my whole life."

"Well, Curly," says she, "if you wait for my wedding you may need the
long coat for your funeral first."

"Huh!" says I. "Huh! Is that so? You don't know your pa none," says I.

"What do you mean, Curly?" says she, sharp.

"He ain't going to be boarding you all your life, kid," says I. "He
can't noways afford it."

"I reckon dad isn't worried much," says she.

"Are you so shore, kid?" says I to her. "Now look here: I'm, say, half
your pa. I haven't said a word to you about certain things. What's more,
I haven't said a word to your pa about them neither."

"I know it, Curly," says she, looking at me sudden. "I love you for it.
You're one grand man, Curly!"

"I'm one worried man," says I. "I've gone back on my job with your pa."

"Do you feel that way, Curly?" says she, and she looked scared. "And is
that my fault?"

"I shore do and it shore is," says I.

"But you haven't said a word."

"No--not yet."

"Don't, Curly!" says she, right quick. "Don't--oh, please don't!"

She puts her hand on my arm then and looks into my eyes.

She had me buffaloed right there. I couldn't get her hand off'n my arm.
I couldn't help patting it when it laid there.

"Aw, shucks!" says I to her. "Come now!"

Right then our William he come in at the door, and stood there and
coughed like he done when he had anything on his mind.

"Ahum!" says he, sad like.

"What is it, William?" says Bonnie Bell, looking round at him.

"Beg pardon, ma'am, but might Hi speak with Mr. Wilson for a moment?"

You see, he called me Mr. Wilson, that being my last name. It was in the
Bible, or else I probably would of forgot it.

"Oh, all right," says I; and I got up and went out with him.

He was standing in his little hall when I come out, and he has our
Boston dog, Peanut, tied to a chair leg there with a piece of rope.
Peanut barked joyful at me, thinking I was going to take him outdoors
maybe.

"Hexcuse me, sir," says William, right sad, "but this little dog is a
hobject of my suspicion, sir."

"What's that?" says I. "What do you suspect him of--embeazlement,
maybe?"

William he stoops down then and unties something that Peanut has
fastened in his collar. It was a envelope. It didn't have no name on it.

"This is the third one Hi found on 'im," says William. "Hi 'ave the
other two in my desk. Hi don't know, sir, for whom they may be
hintended, sir."

"Well, who sent 'em? Is anybody going to blow up our place unlessen we
put twelve thousand dollars under a stone on the front sidewalk?"

"That's what Hi wish to hinquire, sir. Hi became alarmed," says William.
"Hi thought Hi'd awsk you about it, sir, Mr. Wright not being at 'ome."

"Why didn't you awsk Miss Wright?" says I.

"Hi didn't wish to alarm her, possibly."

We stood there, with this letter in our hands, looking it over.

"You say you don't know where this dog's been?" says I.

"Oh, no, sir; quite the contrary. I don't doubt he's often been through
the--ahum!--ahum!----"

"Well, how often has he been through the ahum, William?" says I. "What
made you let him go? You know it's against orders."

"Hi am quite hinnocent of hany hinfraction of my duties," says he. "On
the contrary, Hi've watched this Peanut dog most closely, sir. Yet at
times 'e is habsent. Hi'm of the belief that the notes come from the
hother side of the fence, sir. But has to their haddress, and has to
their contents, sir, Hi assure you Hi'm hutterly hignorant; and hit was
for that reason that Hi awsked you to come and see this one. Hit's just
at 'and, sir."

I taken all three of them letters away from him and opened them, me
being foreman; but when I begun to read I didn't tell William what they
was. I only laughed out loud, hard as I could.

"This is just a joke, William," says I. "Don't pay no attention to it.
You see, Peanut's been over there again, digging up some petunies," says
I.

I went back into the room where Bonnie Bell was. I looked at her for a
while.

"Miss Wright," says I--the second time I ever called her that--"I've
played the game with you on the square, haven't I? You thanked me for
that."

"Yes, Curly; yes," says she, "Why?"

"Have you played in on the square with me?"

"Yes, Curly, I have."

"I told you not to have nothing more to do across the fence, didn't I?"

"Yes. I haven't."

"Is that so, Bonnie Bell Wright?" says I. "Then what's this?"

I put in her hand the note--the one I'd read. It was my business to do
that, the way it come to me.

"Read it," says I to her.

Near as I can remember, it run about like this:

     Why don't you come again? When shall I see you? I'm in the same
     place every day and I wait and wait. Please! Please! Please!

It wasn't signed with no name--only just "The Man Next Door."

Bonnie Bell went pale as a sheet when she read that.

"Curly," says she, "I never saw it before."

I believed her. She'd of died rather 'n lie straight out to me. Maybe
she'd lie some--almost any woman would--but not straight out from the
shoulder between the eyes. So I believed her now.

"Read the next one," says I.

"Have you read my letters, Curly?" says she. She looked at me savage
now.

"I read one of 'em," says I, "and part of the next one. I didn't only
read the first page on that one. I didn't read the other one at all. But
I read enough."

On the first page of this second letter was something more:

     I've waited and waited [it said]. I ought never to have met you as
     I did--I ought never to have said what I did. I am in the deepest
     distress over all this, for I would not be guilty of an act to
     cause you pain. How could I when I----

Right there's where the first page ended and the second page begun.

"Did you read it all, Curly?" says she to me once more.

"No; only the first page," I says. "This last one we just took off'n
Peanut's collar. He brought 'em over."

She was reading the last letter now--the one I never did see. Her face
got soft somehow. Her eyes got bigger and brighter, and softer, somehow,
too.

She folded the letters all up and put 'em in her lap and looked up at
me.

"You didn't read all my letters, Curly?" says she.

"No," says I; "and I won't never read no more. There mustn't be no more,
Bonnie Bell. You know that."

"Yes," says she; "I know that."

But somehow she didn't seem unhappy like she ought to of been. I could
see that.

"How did Peanut get through the fence, Curly?" says she at last.

"There's a hole in the lower corner near the garridge. I thought it was
kept shut. Their hired man dug it through. He said it was to let Peanut
through to enjoy hisself digging up their petunies," says I, "or to have
a sociable fight with their dog. I reckon that's how Peanut got through.
It was easy enough to fasten things on his neck. Whether it was a
square thing to do, him knowing what he does--well, that's something you
ought to know."

She didn't say anything at that.

"A honorable man," says I, "would of come around to the front door,
Bonnie Bell."

"He had no part in this quarrel," says Bonnie Bell; at last, quiet like.
"Why blame him?"

That made me hot.

"Why blame him?" I broke out "Didn't I see him? Ain't I heard him? Can't
I see now? He ain't no part of a man at all or he wouldn't of done this
way. Now," says I, "I've shore got to tell the old man. I hoped I
wouldn't ever have to. But now I got to. The safest bet you ever made is
that hell will pop!"

She turned around right quick then and jumped up on her feet, and her
face was so white it scared me. She come up again and put her arms right
around my neck and looked at me.

"Honey," says I, "you got us in wrong--awful wrong! Now us men has got
to square it the best we can."

"Stop, Curly!" says she, and she shook me by the shoulder. "Stop!
He's--he's a good man. He's--he's honest. He's meant all right. Give him
a chance."

"He don't deserve no chance," says I, "and he won't get none."

"It was the best he could do! He had no chance to come here openly--not
a chance in the world. Maybe he only wanted to say good-by--oh, how do
you know?"

"Did he say good-by or good morning in that last letter, Bonnie Bell?" I
ast her. "Not that it makes much difference either way."

"I won't tell you what he said, Curly," she flared up at me now. "I only
say he did the best he could. He asked for his chance--that's all."

"His chance! The hired man of the worst enemy we got! His chance! His
chance! What chance has he give you? How fair is he playing the game
where all your happiness is up? Oh, Bonnie, shore you don't care for
him?" says I. "Now do you?"

She didn't say a word and I turned toward the door.

"Where you going, Curly?" says she, coming after me.

"I'm going downtown," I says to her.

"Why?"

"To see your pa," says I. "I got to tell him all about this, and do it
now."

She made a quick run at me then, and her arms come around my neck again.

"Oh, Curly! Curly!" she says; and she was crying now. "Oh, what have I
done? It'll kill dad if anything of this gets out--I couldn't stand it.
I can't stand to think of it, Curly. I can't! I can't!"

"Why can't you, Bonnie?" says I.

"Because, Curly"--she got me by the arms again and she was crying
hard--"because---- I'll have to tell you--I'll have to, Curly. I can't
help it! I didn't want it to happen--I fought it to keep it from
happening as long as I could--I didn't want it to be this way. It was
hard--so awfully hard. I tried every way I could; but I can't--I can't
_help_ it, Curly! I can't! I can't! It's no use!" She just run on, over
and over.

"What is it, Bonnie?" says I. "Do you love him?"

"Yes, yes; it's true! I do, Curly--I love him!"

XXI

HER PA'S WAY OF THINKING

"Near as I can figure, Curly," says Old Man Wright to me soon after what
had happened between me and Bonnie Bell--"near as I can figure, Old Man
Wisner's been advertising that the old Circle Arrow Range is a great
little place for the honest granger to raise bananas, pineapples and
other tropical fruits."

"It ain't," says I, "except tomatoes--and them in tin cans."

"The honest yeoman," says he, "according to Old Man Wisner's
description, he don't never have to eat anything as common as bread and
butter, not after he's bought some of that land at four hundred and
fifty dollars a acre. He lives after that time on bird tongues and
omelet souflay, and all he has to do is to set on his wide veranda and
watch his lowing herds increase and multiply at eighty-five dollars a
head--and prices going up all the time. Ain't that fine, Curly? Things
never used to happen just thataway when you and me owned that range, did
they?"

"Not hardly," says I.

"No," says the old man, falling into one of them thinking spells. "No;
they didn't."

Then after about half a hour he says:

"Nor they can't, neither. It'll cost that old miser, Dave Wisner, about
three or four million dollars," says he. "He's put up his life, his
fortune and his sacred honor on that irrigation scheme, and he's going
to be lucky if he gets through with any of them before I call it off."

"Colonel," says I, "you and him remind me of two old Galloways out on
the range, standing head to head, and pushing for a couple of hours or
so at a time--only, you two been pushing for a couple of years."

"Uh-huh!" says he. "But I'm right cheerful; and I don't feel my neck
giving none yet," says he; and he rubs his hand up and down it.

"Has Tom Kimberly been here lately?" the old man ast me, real
suddenlike, right soon after that, though I hadn't said nothing to him.

"He was here this afternoon," says I. "He ast after Miss Bonnie. She
says she was sick, had a cold, and couldn't see no one."

"I'll give Tom sixty days for to propose to Bonnie Bell," says he. "If
he don't, then I'll have to. It don't stand to reason that girl's going
to have a bad cold that's going to last for sixty days; so she'll be
home sometimes when he comes over. I know how his ma and pa feel about
it, and I know how I feel too. Maybe we can get Tom to part his hair
after a while, or take up some manly habit like chawing tobacco instead
of touching the light guitar. Just to take a look at him, I'd say he
shaved with one of them little razors like a hoe. For all I know, he may
wear garters. Still, time alters many things.

"He's marrying into crowned heads when he comes into our family," says
he, going on, "because I'm alderman here, and if my freckles lasts I'm
liable to keep on being alderman. Sometimes I wisht I'd put in the
papers that I was clean broke and depended on the savings which a
faithful old servitor--that's you, Curly--had brung me in my time of
need. But I'm afraid it's too late for that now, though the time to test
them things is before the wedding obsequies and not after."

"Colonel," says I, "suppose a young man would of come along that didn't
have no family back of him, nor no money, but parted his hair, and
shaved with a real razor, and wore no garters, and et tobacco, and was
right husky looking--what would you think?"

"I'd think the millennium had came, here in Chicago," says Old Man
Wright. "I won't deny, Curly, if I had found a young man that could ride
setting down, and chawed tobacco, I wouldn't needed to of thought about
him twice--always provided he played a wide-open game and acted like he
knew what he wanted."

"We don't seem to get together none," says I, despondent.

"Get together!" says he. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing," says I.

XXII

ME AND THEIR LINE FENCE

I had to own it up to myself--I'd lost my nerve. I tried more'n fifteen
times to come out and tell Old Man Wright about them Peanut letters from
their hired man to Bonnie Bell, and I couldn't--I would see her face
every time come in between him and me.

I kept my eyes on that hole in the fence. I was setting there fixing up
the bricks, ready to put them in, when I heard some one talking on the
other side of the fence. You couldn't see nobody through the fence, no
more'n if they was a thousand miles away; but you could hear 'em talk,
all right, there, through the hole. I could tell who one of 'em was--it
was the voice of Old Lady Wisner. She had the sort of a voice a woman
has who has got a nose like a eagle. But I couldn't tell who she was
talking to, for nobody seemed to answer much at first.

"James," says she--"James, what are you doing there?"

No one answered, but I felt sure now she was talking to their gardener.
So he was home!

"Who made that hole? Who has done this, James?" says she again. "Who
made that hole in the wall?"

Still, he didn't answer none; and she went on:

"I see! It must of been some of them awful Wrights that live acrost
there. How dare they break through our fence? I'll have them sued!"

"Oh, no, you won't. It was done from this side--I can tell you that."

I knew his voice. It was him.

"Whoever did it," he went on, "I'm going to close it up. I saw their dog
in our yard the other day. Did you see him in here today?"

"No--that same awful little cur?" says she. "They are the worst people,
James! I certainly am glad you want nothing to do with them, even their
dog. But, of course, you couldn't."

"No; it seemed not," says he.

"What do you mean?" says she, harshlike. "As for that maid of theirs, I
was inexpressibly shocked, James, when I found that you so far forgot
yourself--"

"I wouldn't say any more," says he.

"I shall say all I like, and you'll please remember who you are! The
David Wisners can't afford to have it understood that they associate any
way whatsoever with the Wright family. Not even our servants can visit
acrost. I've been suspecting for some time."

"Well, that's plain enough," says he. "I don't see any use trying to
make it any plainer. There's no use rubbing it in."

"If I had a servant," says she, right pointed, "who'd look at the best
of them I'd discharge him as soon as I knew it. I've got my eye on Emmy,
my second-floor maid, too. All I can say is, you'd all better be more
careful, or, the first thing some of you know----"

"Naturally," says he, "I can imagine that," says he. "It's hell to
belong to the lower classes!"

"What do you mean, James?" says she, solemn, "I'll not have profanity
from you! Besides, you talk like a socialist person, and I'll not have
that."

"Socialist, eh? Well, I'll admit, if I had all the money in the world,"
says he, "no wall nor bars would make any difference to me. Nor they
wouldn't when I didn't have."

"James, continually you shock me beyond words!" says she, gasping. "What
words from one in your position in life!"

He didn't say much then, but only sort of growled, like he was mad.

"James," says she, "what on earth are you doing--what's that you're
eating?"

"It's good old tobacco I'm eating," says he. "I found the brand out West
and I've used no other since."

"James! James!" says she. "You to chew the filthy weed! It's
impossible!"

"No, it ain't," says he. "You watch me and I'll show you how far it is
from impossible. I chaw it and I like it, same as any other socialist;
and I want you to understand, ma'am, that I'm my own man, tobacco and
all, while I stay here. If you don't like it, fire me again!"

She begun to gasp again, like I heard her before.

"You don't care!" says she. "Nothing is sacred to you!"

Them two had me guessing. I'd heard of middle-age women getting
infaturated with chauffores. Why not gardeners, then? Something was
going on between them two, else why should she be so damned jealous? And
why should he be so damned sassy to her? I wondered what Old Man Wisner
would think if he knew what I knew now about his wife. Didn't this even
things up some? I wouldn't tell him, of course; but didn't it beat all
how many secrets I was getting into?

Them folks didn't have so much on us, after all; for that hired man was
shore a gay bird, and playing both sides the fence. I seen he was a
socialist, all right--but, Lord, her, with that face!

XXIII

TOM AND HER

Tom Kimberly he come to our house steady now. Every day he sent flowers
in bundles, like he owned a flower ranch somewhere. Bonnie Bell put them
in the dining-room, and the music room, and the reception parlors, and
the staircase, and the bedrooms--and even in our ranch room.

"Whatever the papers says about bad crops, sis," says I one morning when
a bunch of red roses come in about as big as a sheaf from a self-binder,
"the flower crop is shore copious this year, ain't it? Likewise it seems
to be getting better right along."

"He's a good boy," says she after a while--"a fine boy. And he comes of
such a good family, and I like all his people so much. And
Katherine--what could I do without Katherine?"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "Of course if you like a young man's sister, you ought
to marry him. That stands to reason, don't it?" says I.

"And dad likes 'em all--Mr. Kimberly and Tom's mother."

"Shore he does! For all them reasons you ought to marry the boy. Never
mind about love."

"They're the best people we've met in this town," says she, "and there
aren't any better in any town. They're not only charming people but good
people. They've everything you could ask, Curly."

"Yes," says I; "so it stands to reason you ought to marry that family,"
says I. "Here's them Better Things we come for. Love ain't in it."

You see, I was half her pa. Us two had raised her from a baby together.
I couldn't tell the old man what I knew, but I had to talk to her like
her pa would of talked. I allowed, if she'd get married to Tom Kimberly
right quick, that'd sort of keep things from breaking loose the way they
might, and keep me from having to tell Old Man Wright about the man next
door. I knew plenty more about him now that I wouldn't tell her. I
thought she'd forget him.

Well, she set around all that day sort of moping, with a green poetry
book in her lap; and she had a letter in her hands. It didn't come by
the Peanut route, neither, but by the postman. It was square.

"Tell me, is that from Tom Kimberly, Bonnie?" says I.

"It's absolutely none of your business, Mr. Curly Wilson," says she;
"and I wouldn't tell you in any circumstances. But it is."

"Let me see it," says I.

"Indeed!" She looks me square in the face.

"Don't tell me a word, sis," says I. "I'm not so hard as you think."