“Thank you.  I knew I could count upon you, Jack.”

The schoolma’am recovered her spirits with a promptness that was suspicious; patted his arm and called him an awfully good fellow, which reduced Happy Jack to a state just this side imbecility.  Also, she drew a little memorandum book from somewhere, and wrote Happy Jack’s name in clear, convincing characters that made him shiver.  He saw other names above his own on the page; quite a lot of them; seven in fact.  Miss Satterly, evidently, was not quite as destitute of friends as her voice, awhile back, would lead one to believe.  Happy Jack wondered.

“I haven’t quite decided what we will have,” she remarked briskly.  “When I do, we’ll all meet some evening in the school-house and talk it over.  There’s lots of fun getting up an entertainment; you’ll like it, once you get started.”

Happy did not agree with her, but he did not tell her so; he managed to contort his face into something resembling a grin, and retreated to the hotel, where he swallowed two glasses of whiskey to start his blood moving again, and then sat down and played poker disasterously until daylight made the lamps grow a sickly yellow and the air of the room seem suddenly stale and dead.  But Happy never thought of blaming the schoolma’am for the eighteen dollars he lost.

Neither did he blame her for the nightmares which tormented his sleep during the week that followed or the vague uneasiness that filled his waking hour, even when he was not thinking directly of the ghost that dogged him.  For wherever he went, or whatever he did, Happy Jack was conscious of the fact that his name was down on the schoolma’am’s list and he was definitely committed to do anything she asked him to do, even to “speaking a piece”—­which was in his eyes the acme of mental torture.

When Cal Emmett, probably thinking of Miss Satterly’s little book, pensively warbled in his ear: 

  Is your name written there,
  On the page white and fair?

Happy Jack made no reply, though he suddenly felt chilly along the spinal column.  It was.

“Schoolma’am wants us all to go over to the schoolhouse tonight—­seven-thirty, sharp—­to help make medicine over this Santa Claus round-up.  Slim, she says you’ve got to be Santy and come down the stovepipe and give the kids fits and popcorn strung on a string.  She says you’ve got the figure.”  Weary splashed into the wash basin like a startled muskrat.

The Happy Family looked at one another distressfully.

“By golly,” Slim gulped, “you can just tell the schoolma’am to go plumb—­” (Weary faced him suddenly, his brown hair running rivulets) “and ask the Old Man,” finished Slim hurriedly.  “He’s fifteen pounds fatter’n I be.”

“Go tell her yourself,” said Weary, appeased.  “I promised her you’d all be there on time, if I had to hog-tie the whole bunch and haul yuh over in the hayrack.”  He dried his face and hands leisurely and regarded the solemn group.  “Oh, mamma! you’re sure a nervy-looking bunch uh dogies.  Yuh look like—­”