“Don’t they?  Don’t they?”

“Why, you and Santa Claus weren’t putting up any scheme on my stocking?”

“Well—­”

“I believe you’re in earnest!” cried his Excellency.  “That’s simply rich!” Here was a thing to relish!  The Frontier comes to town “heeled for a big time,” finds that presents are all the rage, and must immediately give somebody something.  Oh, childlike, miscellaneous Frontier!  So thought the good-hearted Governor; and it seems a venial misconception.  “My dear fellow,” he added, meaning as well as possible, “I don’t want you to spend your money on me.”

“I’ve got plenty all right,” said Lin, shortly.

“Plenty’s not the point.  I’ll take as many drinks as you please with you.  You didn’t expect anything from me?”

“That ain’t—­that don’t—­”

“There!  Of course you didn’t.  Then, what are you getting proud about?  Here’s our shop.”  They stepped in from the street to new crowds and counters.  “Now,” pursued the Governor, “this is for a very particular friend of mine.  Here they are.  Now, which of those do you like best?”

They were sets of Tennyson in cases holding little volumes equal in number, but the binding various, and Mr. McLean reached his decision after one look.  “That,” said he, and laid a large muscular hand upon the Laureate.  The young lady behind the counter spoke out acidly, and Lin pulled the abject hand away.  His taste, however, happened to be sound, or, at least, it was at one with the Governor’s; but now they learned that there was a distressing variance in the matter of price.

The Governor stared at the delicate article of his choice.  “I know that Tennyson is what she—­is what’s wanted,” he muttered; and, feeling himself nudged, looked around and saw Lin’s extended fist.  This gesture he took for a facetious sympathy, and, dolorously grasping the hand, found himself holding a lump of bills.  Sheer amazement relaxed him, and the cow-puncher’s matted wealth tumbled on the floor in sight of all people.  Barker picked it up and gave it back.  “No, no, no!” he said, mirthful over his own inclination to be annoyed; “you can’t do that.  I’m just as much obliged, Lin,” he added.

“Just as a loan, Doc—­some of it.  I’m grass-bellied with spot-cash.”

A giggle behind the counter disturbed them both, but the sharp young lady was only dusting.  The Governor at once paid haughtily for Tennyson’s expensive works, and the cow-puncher pushed his discountenanced savings back into his clothes.  Making haste to leave the book department of this shop, they regained a mutual ease, and the Governor became waggish over Lin’s concern at being too rich.  He suggested to him the list of delinquent taxpayers and the latest census from which to select indigent persons.  He had patients, too, whose inveterate pennilessness he could swear cheerfully to—­“since you want to bolt from your own money,” he remarked.