“‘Aggh, g’wan, ye bald-headed ol’ pepper-mint lozenger!’ she hollers.  ’D’ye s’pose I niwer see a lookin’-glass?  Where’s the man’ll marry me widout me money?  “Me face is me forchune, sor,” sez she.  “Tek it to the gravel bank an’ have it cashed, then,” sez he.  Where’s the man that’ll have me, face an’ all, lackin’ the coin?  Woora, woora, answer me that!’

“Well, as usual, it was up to me.  There wasn’t no escapin’ it.  A man might just as well meet his fate smilin’ as trailin’ his lip on the ground, for my experiences teaches, dear friends and brothers, that Fate just naturally don’t care a wooden-legged tinker’s dam.

“‘Madam,’ says I, removin’ my hat and bowin’, ’the honorable name of Scraggs is at your disposal.’

“‘Eh?’ says she.  ‘What’s that you’re sayin’?’

“’I repeat, plainly and sadly, ma’am, that one-fourteenth of my heart and hands is at your disposal.’

“‘Heh?’ says she again.  ‘An’ what’s the one-foorteeneth mane?’

“‘I have now,’ I replies, ’thirteen wives—­’Before I could get another word out she was ra’rin.’

“‘Oh!’ she yells, ’ye villyan!  Ye long-legged blaggard!  Ye hairless ol’ scoundrel of the world!  How dast ye?’ She begun lookin’ around for a club, so I talked fast.

“‘It’s my religion, ma’am,’ says I.  ’I’m a Mormon by profession, mixed with accident.  Think a minute before you do somethin’ that’ll cause general regret.’

“‘Well,’ she says, calmin’ down, ’is there e’er an Oirish leddy in the lot?’

“‘Not one, up till this joyful present,’ I answers.  ’I don’t rightly know what country they hail from, but I can truthfully add that I’m not thinkin’ of takin’ up homestead rights there.’

“‘Aggh, g’long wid yer jokin’,’ says she, as kittenish as anything.  ‘Yer only foolin’, ye are.’ “‘Ma’am,’ says I, ’if you say the word I shall at once proceed to get my fiery, untamed skees and go gallopin’ over the mountains to make you the fourteenth Mrs. Scraggs with all speed and celery possible.  You have only to speak to turn this dreadful uncertainty into a horrible fact.  I pay for what I break; that’s me, Jo Bush.’

“‘Well, ain’t this suddent!’ she says.  ’But I’ll not stop ye from yer intentions—­men is that set in their ways!  Run along, now, loike a good choild!’

“‘Well, good-by, William!’ I says when we started, ’You see how it is yourself!”

“He cried on my coat collar.  I honest believe that grass-juice had a jump or two in it, so darned insijous a man wouldn’t notice.

“‘To think it was me brought this on,’ he hollers.  ‘Me an’ my revengeful nature!  You try to forgive me, Ezekiel.  And we everlastingly did wind up that mill, anyhow!’

“‘William,’ says I, ’take no heed.  No man is above what happens to him, unless like he’d been atop of the mill when she dispersed.  I forgive you—­good-by.’”

Mr. Scraggs puffed his pipe thoughtfully.  “Thirteen,” he ruminated, and shook his head.  “Tell me not them mournful numbers.”