Uncle Lance had promised Mr. Wilson to take supper with his family, and as we were all sprucing up for the dance, he returned.  He had not been present at the finals of the lancing contest, but from guests of the Wilsons’ had learned that one of his boys had won the honors.  So on riding into camp, as the finishing touches were being added to our rustic toilets, he accosted Quayle and said:  “Well, Theo, they tell me that you won the elephant.  Great Scott, boy, that’s the best luck that has struck Las Palomas since the big rain a year ago this month!  Of course, we all understand that you’re to choose the oldest Vaux girl.  What’s that?  You don’t know?  Well, I do.  I’ve had that all planned out, in case you won, ever since we decided that you was to contest as the representative of Las Palomas.  And now you want to balk, do you?”

Uncle Lance was showing some spirit, but his sister checked him with this explanation:  “Just because Miss Frances didn’t show any enthusiasm over Theo winning, he and Tom somehow have got the idea in their minds that she don’t care a rap to be chosen Queen.  I’ve tried to explain it to them, but the boys don’t understand girls, that’s all.  Why, if Theo was to choose any other girl, she’d set the river afire.”

“That’s it, is it?” snorted Uncle Lance, pulling his gray mustaches.  “Well, I’ve known for some time that Tom didn’t have good sense, but I have always given you, Theo, credit for having a little.  I’ll gamble my all that what Jean says is Bible truth.  Didn’t I have my eye on you and that girl for nearly a week during the hunt a year ago, and haven’t you been riding my horses over to the Frio once or twice a month ever since?  You can read a brand as far as I can, but I can see that you’re as blind as a bat about a girl.  Now, young fellow, listen to me:  when the master of ceremonies announces the winners of the day, and your name is called, throw out your brisket, stand straight on those bow-legs of yours, step forward and claim your privilege.  When the wreath is tendered you, accept it, carry it to the lady of your choice, and kneeling before her, if she bids you arise, place the crown on her brow and lead the grand march.  I’d gladly give Las Palomas and every hoof on it for your years and chance.”

The festivities began with falling darkness.  The master of ceremonies, a school teacher from Oakville, read out the successful contestants and the prizes to which they were entitled.  The name of Theodore Quayle was the last to be called, and excusing himself to Miss Jean, who had him in tow, he walked forward with a military air, executing every movement in the ceremony like an actor.  As the music struck up, he and the blushing Frances Vaux, rare in rustic beauty and crowned with a wreath of live-oak leaves, led the opening march.  Hundreds of hands clapped in approval, and as the applause quieted down, I turned to look for a partner, only to meet Miss Jean and my former sweetheart.  Both were in a seventh heaven of delight, and promptly took occasion to remind me of my lack of foresight, repeating in chorus, “Didn’t I tell you?” But the music had broken into a waltz, which precluded any argument, and on the mistress remarking “You young folks are missing a fine dance,” involuntarily my arm encircled my old sweetheart, and we drifted away into elysian fields.