“Who put this head on me, Sandy?” he inquired apathetically.  “The preacher?”

“I d’ know.  You had it when you come up outa the heap.  You licked the preacher afterwards, I think.”

Sandy was reading a ragged-backed novel while he smoked; his interest in Ford and Ford’s battered countenance was plainly perfunctory.

Outside, the rain fell aslant in the wind and drummed dismally upon the little window beside Sandy.  It beat upon the door and trickled underneath in a thin rivulet to a shallow puddle, formed where the floor was sunken.  A dank warmth and the smell of wet wood heating to the blazing point pervaded the room and mingled with the coarse aroma of cheap, warmed-over coffee.

“Sandy!”

“Hunh?”

“Did anybody get married last night?” The leash of forgetfulness was snapping, strand by strand.  Troubled remembrance peered out from behind the philosophic calm in Ford’s eyes.

“Unh-hunh.”  Sandy turned a leaf and at the same time flicked the ashes from his cigarette with a mechanical finger movement.  “You did.”  He looked briefly up from the page.  “That’s why you licked the preacher,” he assisted, and went back to his reading.

A subdued rumble of mid-autumn thunder jarred sullenly overhead.  Ford ceased caressing the purple half-moon which inclosed his left eye and began moodily straightening his tie.

“Now what’n hell did I do that for?” he inquired complainingly.

“Search me,” mumbled Sandy over his book.  He read half a page farther.  “Do what for?” he asked, with belated attention.

Ford swore and went over and lifted the coffeepot from the stove, shook it, looked in, and made a grimace of disgust as the steam smote him in the face.  “Paugh!” He set down the pot and turned upon Sandy.

“Get your nose out of that book a minute and talk!” he commanded in a tone beseeching for all its surly growl.  “You say I got married.  I kinda recollect something of the kind.  What I want to know is who’s the lady?  And what did I do it for?” He sat down, leaned his bruised head upon his palms, and spat morosely into the stove-hearth.  “Lordy me,” he grumbled.  “I don’t know any lady well enough to marry her—­and I sure can’t think of any female lady that would marry me—­not even by proxy!”

Sandy closed the book upon a forefinger and regarded Ford with that blend of pity, amusement, and tolerance which is so absolutely unbearable to one who has behaved foolishly and knows it.  Ford would not have borne the look if he had seen it; but he was caressing a bruise on the point of his jaw and staring dejectedly into the meager blaze which rimmed the lower edge of the stove’s front door, and so remained unconscious of his companion’s impertinence.

“Who was the lady, Sandy?” he begged dispiritedly, after a silence.

“Search me” Sandy replied again succinctly.  “Some stranger that blew in here with a license and the preacher and said you was her fee-ancy.”  (Sandy read romances, mostly, and permitted his vocabulary to profit thereby.) “You never denied it, even when she said your name was a nomdy gair; and you let her marry you, all right.”