“‘You bet!’ I snorts.  ’It’s time you was tucked in.  The dew is fallin’ and some rude person might accost you.  You big slob!  There’s a man’s work to do to-night, and as I don’t seem to have no competition in holding the title, I s’pose it’s my lead.’  I throwed him into a carriage.  ’You’d best put on your nighty, and have the maid turn down your light.  Sweet dreams, Gussie!’ I was plumb sore on him.  History don’t record no divorce suits in the Stone Age, when a domestic inclined man allus toted a white-oak billy, studded with wire nails, according to the pictures, and didn’t scruple to use it, both at home and abroad.  Women was hairy, them days, and harder to make love, honour and obey; but principles is undyin’.

“I boarded another cab: 

“‘Drive me to number ——­,’ giving him the address I’d heard her use.

“‘Who is it,’ came her voice when I rang the bell.

“‘Messenger boy,’ I replies, perjuring my vocal cords.

“When she opened the door, I pushed through and closed it behind me.

“‘What does this mean?’ she cried.  ‘Help!’

“’Shut up!  It means you’re killing the best boy in the world, and I want to know why.’

“‘Who are you?’

“’I’m Bill Joyce, your husband’s pardner.  Old Tarantula Bill, that don’t fear no man, woman, or child that roams the forest.  I’m here to find what ails you—­’

“‘Leave this house, sir!’

“’Well, not to any extent.  You’re a good girl; I knowed it when I first seen your picture.  Now, I want you to tell me—­’

“‘Insolent!  Shall I call the police?’ Her voice was icy, and she stood as solid as stone.

“’Madam, I’m as gentle as a jellyfish, and peaceful to a fault, but if you raise a row before I finish my talk I’ll claim no responsibility over what occurs to the first eight or ten people that intrudes,’ and I drawed my skinnin’ knife, layin’ it on the planner.  ’Philanthropy is raging through my innards, and two loving hearts need joining!’

“‘I don’t love him,’ she quotes, like a phonograft, ignoring my cutlery.

“‘I’ll take exception to that ruling,’ and I picks up a picture of Justus she’d dropped as I broke in.  She never batted an eye.

“’I nursed that lad through brain fever, when all he could utter was your name.’

“‘Has he been sick?’ The first sign of spring lit up her peaks.

“‘Most dead.  Notice of the divorce done it.  He’s in bad shape yet.’  Morrow never had a sick day in his life, but I stomped both feet on the soft pedal, and pulled out the tremulo stop.

“‘Oh!  Oh!’ Her voice was soft, though she still stood like a birch.

“‘Little girl,’ I laid a hand on her shoulder.  ’We both love that boy.  Come, now, what is the matter?’

“She flashed up like powder.

“’Matter?  I thought he was a gentleman, even though he didn’t love me; that he had a shred of honour, at least.  But no!  He went to Alaska and made a fortune.  Then he squandered it, drinking, fighting, gambling, and frittering it away on women.  Bah!  Lewd creatures of the dance-halls, too.’