“If there’s anything I do despise it’s po’try,” groaned Cal Emmett.

“Emerson and Browning and Shakespeare and Gatty,” named Andy gloomily.

Whereat Pink suddenly pushed open the door and went in as goes one who knows exactly what he is about to do.  They followed him distressfully and silently.  Pink went immediately to his bunk and began pulling off his boots.

“I’m going to bed,” he told them.  “You fellows can stay up and entertain her if yuh want to—­I won’t!”

They caught the idea and disrobed hastily, though the evening was young.  Irish blew out the lamp and dove under the blankets just as voices came faintly from up the hill, so that when Chip rapped a warning with his knuckles on the door, there was no sound within save an artificial snore from the corner where lay Pink.  Chip was not in the habit of knocking before he entered, but he repeated the summons with emphasis.

“Who’s there-e?” drawled sleepily a voice—­the voice of Weary.

“Oh, I do believe they’ve retired!” came, in a perturbed feminine tone, to the listening ears of the Happy Family.

“Gone to bed?” cried Chip gravely.

“Hours ago,” lied Andy fluently.  “We’re plumb wore out.  What’s happened?”

“Oh, don’t disturb the poor fellows!  They’re tired and need their rest,” came the perturbed tone again.  After that the voices and the footsteps went up the hill again, and the Happy Family breathed freer.  Incidentally, Pink stopped snoring and made a cigarette.

Going to bed at seven-thirty or thereabouts was not the custom of the Happy Family, but they stayed under the covers and smoked and discussed the situation.  They dared not have a light, and the night was longer than they had ever known a night to be, for it was late before they slept.  It was well that Miss Verbena Martin could not overhear their talk, which was unchivalrous and unfriendly in the extreme.  The general opinion seemed to be that old maid improvers would better stay at home where they might possibly be welcome, and that when the Happy Family wanted improving they would let her know.  Cal Emmett said that he wouldn’t mind, if they had only sent a young, pretty one.  Happy Jack prophesied plenty of trouble, and boasted that she couldn’t haul him into no s’ciety.  Slim declared again that by golly, she wouldn’t do no improving on him, and the others—­Weary and Irish and Pink and Jack Bates and Andy—­discussed ways and means and failed always to agree.  When each one hoots derision at all plans but his own, it is easy guessing what will be the result.  In this particular instance the result was voices raised in argument—­voices that reached Chip, grinning and listening on the porch of the White House—­and tardy slumber overtaking a disgruntled Happy Family on the brink of violence.

It was not a particularly happy Family that woke to memory and a snowy Sunday; woke late, because of the disturbing evening.  When they spoke to one another their voices were but growls, and when they trailed through the snow to their breakfast they went in moody silence.