With some protests all those engaged handed their belts to Dan Anderson, who casually flung them over a projecting cedar limb of the fence.  “For shame!  Curly,” said he.  “Talk about tenderfeet!  Here you are, wearin’ a pearl handle on your gun, just like a cheap Nebraska sheepherder with social ambitions.  I thought you was a real cowman.  The court fines you—­”

“It ain’t my fault,” said Curly, blushing.  “The girl—­the little woman—­that’s my wife—­she done that last Christmas.  She allowed it was fine—­and it goes.”

“Yes, and put enough money into this handle to buy a whole new croquet set for the family.  Ain’t that awful!  All this comes of takin’ a daily newspaper once a month and readin’ the advertisin’ columns.  We’re going to be plumb effete, if we ain’t mighty careful, down in here.”

“That’s so,” said McKinney, scratching his head.  “Times is changin’.  That reminds me, I ordered a new suit of clothes by mail from Philadelphy, and they ought to be just about due when Tom Osby comes down; and that ought to be to-day.”

“That’s so,” assented Doc Tomlinson.  “He’s got a little bill of goods for me, too.”

“Oh, why, oh, why this profligacy, Doc?” said Dan Anderson.  “Didn’t you order two pounds of alum the last trip Tom made?  What do you want of so many drugs, anyhow?”

“Hush, fellers,” said Curly.  “Listen a minute!”

Curly’s ears had detected the rattle of distant wagon wheels.  “That’s Tom comin’ now,” said he.  “He’s a heap more regular than the Socorro stage.  That’s him, because I can hear him singin’.”

“Tom, he’s stuck on music,” said McKinney.

Afar, but approaching steadily, might be heard the jolting vehicle coming down the canon; and presently there was borne to our ears the sound of Tom Osby’s voice in his favorite melody:—­

  “I never lo-o-oved a fo-o-o-o-nd ga-a-a-z-elle!”

He proclaimed this loudly.

We knew that Tom would drive up to Whiteman’s store, hence we waited for him near the corral fence.  As he approached and observed our occupation he arrested his salutations and gazed for a moment in silent meditation.

“Prithee, sweet sirs,” said he, at length, “what in blazes you doin’?”

“These gentlemen,” said Dan Anderson from the fence, “are engaged in showin’ the endurin’ quality of the Anglo-Saxon temperament.  Wherever the Saxon goes he sets up his own peculiar institutions.  What!  Shall New Mexico be behind New York, or New England?  This croquet set cost eighteen dollars to get here from Chicago.  Get down, Tom, you’re in on the game.”

But Tom picked up his reins and clucked to his team.  “Excuse me, fellers,” said he.  “That there looks too frisky for me.  I got to think of my business reputation.”  He passed on up the street.

“What’s the matter with Tom?” asked Curly.  “Seems like he wasn’t feelin’ right cheerful, some way.”  Dan Anderson gazed after the teamster pensively.