“Then Enright makes old Glegg a long, soft talk, an’ seeks to imboo him with ca’mness.  He relates how Abby an’ the pinfeather sport dotes on each other; an’ counsels old Glegg not to come pesterin’ about with roode objections to the weddin’.

“‘Which I says this as your friend,’ remarks Enright.

“‘It’s as the scripter says,’ replies old Glegg, who’s mollified a lot, ’it’s as the good book says:  A soft answer turneth away wrath; but more speshully when the opp’sition’s got your guns.  I begins to see things different.  Still, I hates to lose my Abby that a-way.  Since my old woman dies, Abby, gents, has been the world an’ all to me.’

“’Is your wife dead?” asks Enright, like he sympathises.

“‘Shore!’ says old Glegg; ‘been out an’ gone these two years.  She’s with them cherubim in glory.  But folks, you oughter seen her to onderstand my loss.  Five years ago we has a ranch over back of the Tres Hermanas by the Mexico line.  The Injuns used to go lopin’ by our ranch, no’th an’ south, all the time.  You-all recalls when they pays twenty-five dollars for skelps in Tucson?  My wife’s that thrifty them days that she buys all her own an’ my child Abby’s clothes with the Injuns she pots.  Little Abby used to scout for her maw.  “Yere comes another!” little Abby would cry, as she stampedes up all breathless, her childish face aglow.  With that, my wife would take her hands outen the wash-tub, snag onto that savage with her little old Winchester, and quit winner twenty-five right thar.’

“‘Which I don’t marvel you-all mourns her loss,’ says Enright consolin’ly.

“‘She’s shorely—­Missis Glegg is—­’ says old Glegg, shakin’ his grizzly head; ’she’s shore the most meteoric married lady of which hist’ry says a word.  My girl Abby’s like her.’

“‘But whatever’s your objection,’ argues Enright, ‘to this young an’ trusty sport who’s so eager to wed Abby?’

“‘I objects to him because he gambles,’ says old Glegg.  ’I can see he gambles by him pickin’ up the salt cellar between his thumb an’ middle finger with the forefinger over the top like it’s a stack of chips, one evenin’ when he stays to supper an’ I asks him to “pass the salt.”  Then ag’in, he don’t drink; he tells me so himse’f when I invites him to libate.  I ain’t goin’ to have no teetotal son-in-law around, over-powerin’ me in a moral way; I’d feel criticised an’ I couldn’t stand it, gents.  Lastly, I don’t like this yere felon’s name none.’

“‘Whatever is his name, then?’ asks Enright.  ’So far he don’t confide no title to us.’

“‘An’ I don’t wonder none!’ says old Glegg.  ’It shows he’s decent enough to be ashamed.  Thar’s hopes of him yet.  Gents, his name’s Toad Allen.  “Allen” goes, but, gents, I flies in the air at “Toad.”  Do you-all blame me?  I asks you, as onbiased sports, would you set ca’mly down while a party named “Toad” puts himse’f in nom’nation to be your son-in-law?’