says the ole man, “and look at them teeth! Four of a kind–can y’ beat it?”

“Wa-a-al,” I says, sniffin’, “they’s so, so, I reckon, but any kid––”

“Any kid!” yells the ole man, plumb aggervated. And he was just turnin’ round to give me one when–in limps Simpson!

“Mister Sewell,” he says, “I come to make a complaint”–he shook his fist at me–“agin this here ruffian. He––”

“Wow!” roars Sewell. “Don’t you trouble to make no complaints in this house. Here you been a-treatin’ this baby fer bugs when it was just teeth. Say! you ain’t got sense enough to come in when it rains!”

That plumb rattled Simpson. He was gittin’ a reception he didn’t reckon on. But he tried t’ keep up his game.

“This cow-boy here is responsible fer damages to my auto,” he says. “The dashboard’s smashed into matches, the tumblin’-rods is broke, the spark-condenser’s kaflummuxed, and the hull blamed business is skew-gee. This man was actin’ in you’ behalf, and if he don’t pay, I’ll sue you.”

“Sue?” says Sewell; “sue? You go guess again! You send in you’ bill, that’s what you do. You ain’t earned nothin’–but, by jingo, it’s worth money just to git shet of such a dog-goned shyster as you. Git.”

And with that, out goes Mister Bugs.

Then, grandpaw, he turns round to the baby again, plumb took up with them four new nippers. “Cluck, cluck,” he says like a chicken, and pokes the kid under the chin. Over one shoulder, he says to Billy, “And, Trowbridge, you can make out you’ bill, too.”

Billy didn’t answer nothin’. Just went over to a table, pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil, and begun t’ write. Pretty soon, he got up and come back.

“Here, Mister Sewell,” he says.

I was right byside the ole man, and–couldn’t help it–I stretched to read what Billy’d writ. And this was what it was:

Sewell, he read the paper over and over, turnin’ all kinds of colours. And Silly and me come blamed nigh chokin’ from holdin’ our breaths. Rose was lookin’ up at us, and at her paw, too, turrible anxious. As fer that kid, it was a-kickin’ its laigs into the air and gurglin’ like a bottle.

Fin’lly, the ole man handed the paper back. “Doc,” he says, “Rose is past twenty-one, and not a’ idjit. Also, the kid is hern. So, bein’ this bill reads the way it does, mebbe you’d better hand it t’ her. If she don’t think it’s too steep a figger––”

Billy took the paper and give it over to Rose. When she read it, her face got all blushy; and happy, too, I could see that.

“Rose!” says Billy, holdin’ out his two arms to her.

I took a squint through the winda at the scenery–and heerd a sound like a cow pullin’ its foot outen the mud.

“Rose,” goes on Billy, “I’ll be as good as I know how to you.”

When I turned round again, here was ole man Sewell standin’ in the middle of the floor, lookin’ back and forth from Rose and Billy to the kid–like it’d just struck him that he was goin’ t’ lose his gal and the baby and all them teeth. And if ever a man showed that he was helpless and jealous and plumb hurt, why, that was him. Next, here he was a-gazin’ at me with a queer shine in his eyes–almost savage. And say! it got me some nervous.

“Seems Mister Cupid Lloyd is a-runnin’ things ’round this here ranch-house,” he begun slow, like he was holdin’ in his mad.

I–wal, I just kinda stood there, and swallered oncet ’r twicet, and tried t’ grin. (Didn’t know nothin’ t’ say, y’ savvy, that’d be likely t’ hit him just right.)

“So Cupid’s gone and done it again!” he goes on. “How accommodatin’! Haw!” And he give one of them short, sarcastic laughs.

“Wal, just let me tell you,” he continues, steppin’ closter, “that I, fer one, ain’t got no use fer a feller that’s allus a-stickin’ in his lip.”

“Sewell,” I says, “no feller likes to–that’s a cinch. But oncet in a while it’s plumb needful.”

“It is, is it? And I s’pose this is one of them cases. Wal, Mister Cupid, all I can say is this: The feller that sticks in his lip allus gits into trouble.”

Sometimes, them words of hisn come back to me. Mebbe I’ll be feelin’ awful good-natured, and be a-laughin’ and talkin’. Of a suddent, up them words’ll pop, and the way he said ’em, and all. And even if it’s right warm weather, why, I shiver, yas, ma’am. The fetter that sticks in his lip allus gits into trouble–nothin’ was ever said truer’n that!

“And,” the ole man goes on again, a little bit hoarse by now, “I can feel you’ trouble a-comin’. So far, you been lucky. But it cain’t last–it cain’t last. You know what it says in the Bible? (Mebbe it ain’t in the Bible, but that don’t matter.) It says, ‘Give a fool a rope and he’ll hang hisself.’ And one of these times you’ll play Cupid just oncet too many. What’s more, the smarty that can allus bring other folks t’gether cain’t never manage t’ hitch hisself.”

I’d been keepin’ still ’cause I didn’t want they should be no hard feelin’s ’twixt us. But that last remark of hisn kinda got my dander up.

“Aw, I don’t know,” I answers; “when it comes my own time, I don’t figger t’ have much trouble.”

Wal, sir, the old man flew right up. His face got the colour of sand-paper, and he brung his two hands t’gether clinched, so’s I thought he’d plumb crack the bones. “Haw!” (That laugh again–bitter’n gall.) “Mister Cupid Lloyd, you just wait.” And out he goes.

“Cupid,” says Billy, “I’m turrible sorry. Seems, somehow, that you’ve got Sewell down on y’ account of me––”

“That’s all right, Doc,” I answers; “I don’t keer. It mocks nix oudt, as Dutchy ’d say.” And I shook hands with him and Rose, and kissed the baby.

It mocks nix oudt–that’s what I said. Wal, how was I t’ know then, that I’d made a’ enemy of the one man that, later on, I’d be willin’ t’ give my life t’ please, almost?–how was I t’ know?

CHAPTER TWO
A THIRST-PARLOUR MIX-UP GIVES ME A NEW DEAL

Ain’t it funny what little bits of things can sorta change a feller’s life all ’round ev’ry which direction–shuffle it up, you might say, and throw him out a brand new deal? Now, take my case: If a sassy greaser from the Lazy X ranch hadn’t ’a’ plugged Bud Hickok, Briggs City ’d never ’a’ got the parson; if the parson hadn’t ’a’ came, I’d never ’a’ gone to church; and mebbe if I hadn’t never ’a’ gone to church, it wouldn’t ’a’ made two cents diff’rence whether ole man Sewell was down on me ’r not–fer the reason that, likely, I’d never ’a’ met up with Her.

Now, I ain’t a-sayin’ I’m a’ almanac, ner one of them crazies that can study the trails in the middle of you’ hand and tell you that you’re a-goin’ to have ham and aigs fer breakfast. No, ma’am, I ain’t neither one. But, just the