a good, seasoned, ineligible man like that turn chicken for a girl that hadn’t quit eating slate pencils and buttoning in the back was more than I could look on with easiness.
“Rebosa,” says I, earnest, drawing upon my display of knowledge concerning the feminine intuitions of reason— “ain’t there a young man in Pina — a nice young man that you think a heap of?”
“Yep,” says Rebosa, nodding her pansies— “Sure there is! What do you think! Gracious!”
“Does he like you?” I asks. “How does he stand in the matter?”
“Crazy,” says Rebosa. “Ma has to wet down the front steps to keep him from sitting there all the time. But I guess that’ll be all over after tonight,” she winds up with a sigh.
“Rebosa,” says I, “you don’t really experience any of this adoration called love for old Mack, do you?”
“Lord! no,” says the girl, shaking her head. “I think he’s as dry as a lava bed. The idea!”
“Who is this young man that you like, Rebosa?” I inquires.
“It’s Eddie Bayles,” says she. “He clerks in Crosby’s grocery. But he don’t make but thirty-five a month. Ella Noakes was wild about him once.”
“Old Mack tells me,” I says, “that he’s going to marry you at six o’clock this evening.”
“That’s the time,” says she. “It’s to be at our house.”
“Rebosa,” says I, “listen to me. If Eddie Bayles had a thousand dollars cash — a thousand dollars, mind you, would buy him a store of his own — if you and Eddie had that much to excuse matrimony on, would you consent to marry him this evening at five o’clock?”
The girl looks at me a minute; and I can see these inaudible cogitations going on inside of her, as women will.
“A thousand dollars?” says she. “Of course I would.”
“Come on,” says I. “We’ll go and see Eddie.”
We went up to Crosby’s store and called Eddie outside. He looked to be estimable and freckled; and he had chills and fever when I made my proposition.
“At five o’clock?” says he, “for a thousand dollars? Please don’t wake me up! Well, you are the rich uncle retired from the spice business in India! I’ll buy out old Crosby and run the store myself.”
We went inside and got old man Crosby apart and explained it. I wrote my check for a thousand dollars and handed it to him. If Eddie and Rebosa married each other at five he was to turn the money over to them.
And then I gave ’em my blessing, and went to wander in the wildwood for a season. I sat on a log and made cogitations on life and old age and the zodiac and the ways of women and all the disorder that goes with a lifetime. I passed myself congratulations that I had probably saved my old friend Mack from his attack of Indian summer. I knew when he got well of it and shed his infatuation and his patent leather shoes, he would feel grateful. “To keep old Mack disinvolved,” thinks I, “from relapses like this, is worth more than a thousand dollars.” And most of all I was glad that I’d made a study of women, and wasn’t to be deceived any by their means of conceit and evolution.
It must have been half-past five when I got back home. I stepped in; and there sat old Mack on the back of his neck in his old clothes with his blue socks on the window and the History of Civilisation propped up on his knees.
“This don’t look like getting ready for a wedding at six,” I says, to seem innocent.
“Oh,” says Mack, reaching for his tobacco, “that was postponed back to five o’clock. They sent me over a note saying the hour had been changed. It’s all over now. What made you stay away so long, Andy?”
“You heard about the wedding?” I asks.
“I operated it,” says he. “I told you I was justice of the peace. The preacher is off East to visit his folks, and I’m the only one in town that can perform the dispensations of marriage. I promised Eddie and Rebosa a month ago I’d marry ‘em. He’s a busy lad; and he’ll have a grocery of his own some day.”
“He will,” says I.
“There was lots of women at the wedding,” says Mack, smoking up. “But I didn’t seem to get any ideas from ‘em. I wish I was informed in the structure of their attainments like you said you was.”
“That was two months ago,” says I, reaching up for the banjo.
Telemachus, Friend
Returning from a hunting trip, I waited at the little town of Los Pinos, in New Mexico, for the south-bound train, which was one hour late. I sat on the porch of the Summit House and discussed the functions of life with Telemachus Hicks, the hotel proprietor.
Perceiving that personalities were not out of order, I asked him what species of beast had long ago twisted and mutilated his left ear. Being a hunter, I was concerned in the evils that may befall one in the pursuit of game.
“That ear,” says Hicks, “is the relic of true friendship.”
“An accident?” I persisted.
“No friendship is an accident,” said Telemachus; and I was silent.
“The only perfect case of true friendship I ever knew,” went on my host, “was a cordial intent between a Connecticut man and a monkey. The monkey climbed palms in Barranquilla and threw down cocoanuts to the man. The man sawed them in two and made dippers, which he sold for two reales each and bought rum. The monkey drank the milk of the nuts. Through each being satisfied with his own share of the graft, they lived like brothers.
“But in the case of human beings, friendship is a transitory art, subject to discontinuance without further notice.
“I had a friend once, of the entitlement of Paisley Fish, that I imagined was sealed to me for an endless space of time. Side by side for seven years we had mined, ranched, sold patent churns, herded sheep, took photographs and other things, built wire fences, and picked prunes. Thinks I, neither homocide nor flattery nor riches nor sophistry nor drink can make trouble between me and Paisley Fish. We was friends an amount you could hardly guess at. We was friends in business, and we let our amicable qualities lap over and season our hours of recreation and folly. We certainly had days of Damon and nights of Pythias.
“One summer me and Paisley gallops down into these San Andres mountains for the purpose of a month’s surcease and levity, dressed in the natural store habiliments of man. We hit this town of Los Pinos, which certainly was a roofgarden spot of the world, and flowing with condensed milk and honey. It had a street or two, and air, and hens, and a eating-house; and that was enough for us.
“We strikes the town after supper-time, and we concludes to sample whatever efficacy there is in this eating-house down by the railroad tracks. By the time we had set down and pried up our plates with a knife from the
