full of money to buy; and when he thought of Shorty, and Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill, those dandies to hit a town with, he stepped out with a brisk, false hope.  It was with a mental hurrah and a foretaste of a good time coming that he put on his town clothes, after shaving and admiring himself, and sat down to the square meal.  He ate away and drank with a robust imitation of enjoyment that took in even himself at first.  But the sorrowful process of his spirit went on, for all he could do.  As he groped for the contentment which he saw around him he began to receive the jokes with counterfeit mirth.  Memories took the place of anticipation, and through their moody shiftings he began to feel a distaste for the company of his friends and a shrinking from their lively voices.  He blamed them for this at once.  He was surprised to think he had never recognized before how light a weight was Shorty; and here was Chalkeye, who knew better, talking religion after two glasses.  Presently this attack of noticing his friends’ shortcomings mastered him, and his mind, according to its wont, changed at a stroke.  “I’m celebrating no Christmas with this crowd,” said the inner man; and when they had next remembered Lin McLean in their hilarity he was gone.

Governor Barker, finishing his purchases at half-past three, went to meet a friend come from Evanston.  Mr. McLean was at the railway station, buying a ticket for Denver.

“Denver!” exclaimed the amazed Governor.

“That’s what I said,” stated Mr. McLean, doggedly.

“Gee whiz!” went his Excellency.  “What are you going to do there?”

“Get good and drunk.”

“Can’t you find enough whiskey in Cheyenne?”

“I’m drinking champagne this trip.”

The cow-puncher went out on the platform and got aboard, and the train moved off.  Barker had walked out too in his surprise, and as he stared after the last car, Mr. McLean waved his wide hat defiantly and went inside the door.

“And he says he’s got maturity,” Barker muttered.  “I’ve known him since seventy-nine, and he’s kept about eight years old right along.”  The Governor was cross, and sorry, and presently crosser.  His jokes about Lin’s marriage came back to him and put him in a rage with the departed fool.  “Yes, about eight.  Or six,” said his Excellency, justifying himself by the past.  For he had first known Lin, the boy of nineteen, supreme in length of limb and recklessness, breaking horses and feeling for an early mustache.  Next, when the mustache was nearly accomplished, he had mended the boy’s badly broken thigh at Drybone.  His skill (and Lin’s utter health) had wrought so swift a healing that the surgeon overflowed with the pride of science, and over the bandages would explain the human body technically to his wild-eyed and flattered patient.  Thus young Lin heard all about tibia, and comminuted, and other glorious new words, and when sleepless would rehearse them.