sententiously; and his words made me sad, though I know that progress cannot spare land and water for such things.  “But Billy,” Lin resumed, “has agreed to school again when it starts up in the fall.  He takes his medicine because I want him to.”  Affection crept anew over the cow-puncher’s face.  “He can learn books with the quickest when he wants, that Bear Creek school-marm says.  But he’d ought to have a regular mother till—­till I can do for him, yu’ know.  It’s onwholesome him seeing and hearing the boys—­and me, and me when I forget!—­but shucks! how can I fix it?  Billy was sure enough dropped and deserted.  But when I found him the little calf could run and notice like everything!”

“I should hate your contract, Lin,” said I.  “Adopting’s a touch-and-go business even when a man has a home.”

“I’ll fill the contract, you bet!  I wish the little son-of-a-gun was mine.  I’m a heap more natural to him than that pair of drunkards that got him.  He likes me:  I think he does.  I’ve had to lick him now and then, but Lord! his badness is all right—­not sneaky.  I’ll take him hunting next month, and then the foreman’s wife at Sunk Creek boards him till school.  Only when they move, Judge Henry’ll make his Virginia man foreman—­and he’s got no woman to look after Billy, yu’ see.”

“He’s asking one hard enough,” said I, digressing.

“Oh yes; asking!  Talk of adopting—­” said Mr. McLean, and his wide-open, hazel eyes looked away as he coughed uneasily.  Then abruptly looking at me again, he said:  “Don’t you get off any more truck about eldest son and that, will yu’, friend?  The boys are joshing me now—­not that I care for what might easy enough be so, but there’s Billy.  Maybe he’d not mind, but maybe he would after a while; and I am kind o’ set on—­well—­he didn’t have a good time till he shook that home of his, and I’m going to make this old bitch of a world pay him what she owes him, if I can.  Now you’ll drop joshing, won’t yu’?” His forehead was moist over getting the thing said and laying bare so much of his soul.

“And so the world owes us a good time, Lin?” said I.

He laughed shortly.  “She must have been dead broke, then, quite a while, you bet!  Oh no.  Maybe I used to travel on that basis.  But see here” (Lin laid his hand on my shoulder), “if you can’t expect a good time for yourself in reason, you can sure make the kids happy out o’ reason, can’t yu’?”

I fairly opened my mouth at him.

“Oh yes,” he said, laughing in that short way again (and he took his hand off my shoulder); “I’ve been thinking a wonderful lot since we met last.  I guess I know some things yu’ haven’t got to yet yourself—­ Why, there’s a girl!”

“That there is!” said I.  “And certainly the world owes her a better—­”

“She’s a fine-looker,” interrupted Mr. McLean, paying me no further attention.  Here the decrepit, straw-hatted proprietor of the Hotel Brunswick stuck his beard out of the door and uttered “Supper!” with a shrill croak, at which the girl rose.