“Yes, ma’am,” she answered absently. Then, as an afterthought, “He’s outside, talking to Happy Jack.”
Annie was mistaken; Happy Jack was talking to Johnny. The schoolma’am tried to look through a frosted window.
“I do wish they’d hurry in; it’s getting late, and everybody’s here and waiting.” She looked at her watch. The suppressed whistle back near the door was gaining volume and insistence.
“Can’t we turn her loose, Girlie?” Weary came up and laid a hand caressingly upon her shoulder.
“Johnny isn’t here, yet, and he’s to give the address of welcome. Why must people whistle and make a fuss like that, Will?”
“They’re just mad because they aren’t in the show,” said Weary. “Say, can’t we cut out the welcome and sail in anyway? I’m getting kinda shaky, dreading it.”
The schoolma’am shook her head. It would not do to leave out Johnny—and besides, country entertainments demanded the usual Address of Welcome. It is never pleasant to trifle with an unwritten law like that. She looked again at her watch and waited; the audience, being perfectly helpless, waited also.
Weary, listening to the whistling and the shuffling of feet, felt a queer, qualmy feeling in the region of his diaphragm, and he yielded to a hunger for consolation and company in his misery. He edged over to where Chip and Cal were amusing themselves by peeping at the audience from behind the tree.
“Say, how do yuh stack up, Cal?” he whispered, forlornly.
“Pretty lucky,” Cal told him inattentively, and the cheerfulness of his whole aspect grieved Weary sorely. But then, he explained to himself, Cal always did have the nerve of a mule.
Weary sighed and wondered what in thunder ailed him, anyway; he was uncertain whether he was sick, or just plain scared. “Feel all right, Chip?” he pursued; anxiously.
“Sure,” said Chip, with characteristic brevity. “I wonder who those silver-mounted spurs are for, there on the tree? They’ve been put on since this afternoon—can’t yuh stretch your neck enough to read the name, Cal? They’re the real thing, all right.”
Weary’s dejection became more pronounced. “Oh, mamma! am I the only knock-kneed son-of-a-gun in this crowd?” he murmured, and turned disconsolately away. His spine was creepy cold with stage fright; he listened to the sounds beyond the shielding curtain and shivered.
Just then Johnny and Happy Jack appeared looking rather red and guilty, and Johnny was thrust unceremoniously forward to welcome his kind friends and still the rising clamor.
Things went smoothly after that. It is true that Weary, as the Japanese Dwarf, halted the Wax-works and glared glassily at the faces staring back at him while the alarm clock buzzed unheeded against his spine. Mrs. Jarley, however, was equal to the emergency. She proceeded calmly to wind him up the second time, gave Weary an admonitory kick and whispered, “Come alive, yuh chump,” and turned to the audience.
“This here Japanese Dwarf I got second-handed at a bargain sale for three-forty-nine, marked down for one week only,” she explained blandly. “I got cheated like h—like I always do at them bargain sales, for it’s about wore out. I guess I can make the thing work well enough to show yuh what it’s meant to represent, though.” She gave Weary another kick, commanded him again to “Come out of it and get busy,” and the Dwarf obediently ate its allotted portion of poison. And every one applauded Weary more enthusiastically than they had the others, for they thought it was all his part. So much for justice.
“Our last selection will be a tableau entitled, ‘Under the Mistletoe,’” announced the schoolma’am’s clear tones. Then she took up her guitar and went down from the stage to where the Little Doctor waited with her mandolin. While the tableau was being arranged they meant to play together in lieu of a regular orchestra. The schoolma’am’s brow was smooth, for the entertainment had been a success so far; and the tableau would be all right, she was sure—for Weary had charge of that. She hoped that Happy Jack would not hate it so very much, and that it would help to break the ice between him and Annie Pilgreen. So she plucked the guitar strings tentatively and began to play.
Behind the curtain, Annie Pilgreen stood simpering in her place and Happy Jack went reluctantly forward, resigned and deplorably inefficient. Weary, himself again now that his torment was over, posed him cheerfully. But Happy Jack did not get the idea. He stood, as Weary told him disgustedly, looking like a hitching-post. Weary labored with him desperately, his ear strained to keep in touch with the music which would, at the proper time, die to a murmur which would be a signal for the red fire and the tableau. Already the lamps were being turned low, out there beyond the curtain.
Though it was primarily a scheme of torture for Happy Jack, Weary was anxious that it should be technically perfect. He became impatient. “Say, don’t stand there like a kink-necked horse, Happy!” he implored under his breath. “Ain’t there any joints in your arms?”
“I ain’t never practised it,” Happy Jack protested in a hoarse whisper. “I never even seen a tableau in my life, even. If somebody’d show me once, so’s I could get the hang of it—”
“Oh, mamma! you’re a peach, all right. Here, give me that sage brush! Now, watch. We haven’t got all night to make medicine over it. See? Yuh want to hold it over her head and kinda bend down, like yuh were daring yourself to kiss—”
Happy Jack backed off to get the effect; incidentally, he took the curtain back with him; also incidentally—, Johnny dropped a match into the red fire, which glowed beautifully. Weary caught his breath, but he was game and never moved any eyelash.
The red glow faded and left an abominable smell behind it, and some merciful hand drew the curtain—but it was not the hand of Happy Jack. He had gone out through the window and was crouching beneath it drinking in greedily the hand-clapping and the stamping of feet and the whistling, with occasional shouts of mirth which he recognized as coming from the rest of the Happy Family. It all sounded very sweet to the great, red ears of Happy Jack.
When the clatter showed signs of abatement he stole away to where his horse was tied, his sorrel coat gleaming with frost sparkles in the moonlight. “It’s you and me to hit the trail, Spider,” he croaked to the horse, and with his bare hand scraped the frost from the saddle.
A tall figure crept up from behind and grappled with him. Spider danced away as far as the rope would permit and snorted, and two struggling forms squirmed away from his untrustworthy heels.
“Aw, leggo!” cried Happy Jack when he could breathe again.
“I won’t. You’ve got to come back and square yourself with Annie. How do yuh reckon she’s feeling at the trick yuh played on her, yuh lop-eared—”
Happy Jack jerked loose and stood grinning in the moonlight. “Aw, gwan. Annie knowed I was goin’ to do it,” he retorted, loftily. “Annie and me’s engaged.” He got into the saddle and rode off, shouting back taunts.
Weary stood bareheaded in the cold and stared after him blankly.
THE LAMB
When came the famine in stock-cars on the Montana Central, and the Flying U herd had grazed for two days within five miles of Dry Lake, waiting for the promised train of empties, Chip Bennett, lately promoted foreman, felt that he had trouble a-plenty. When, short-handed as he was, two of his cowboys went a-spreeing and a-leisuring in town, with their faces turned from honest toil and their hands manipulating pairs and flushes and face-cards, rather than good “grass” ropes, he was positive that his cup was dripping trouble all round the rim.
The delinquents were not “top hands,” it is true. They—the Happy Family, of which Jim Whitmore was inordinately proud—would sooner forswear their country than the Flying U. But even two transients of very ordinary ability are missed when they suddenly vanish in shipping time, and Chip, feeling