“She seems to be pressing her suit, son; you better name the day,” one of the loungers suggested.

“The blamed thing ain’t worth twenty-five dollars,” the young man from the East declared.  A conspicuous silence followed.  It seemed to irritate the owner of the hat that no one would defend it.  “It ain’t worth it,” he repeated.

“I think you allowed you was out here for your health?” the big Texan, who had returned from the corral, inquired.

“Betcher life,” swaggered the man with the hat, “N’York’s good enough for me.”

“But”—­and the Texan smiled sweetly—­“the man who sold you the hat ain’t out here for his.”

Judith hid her head and stamped letters.  The boys were suspiciously quiet, then some one began to chant: 

    “The devil examined the desert well,
    And made up his mind ’twas too dry for hell;
    He put up the prices his pockets to swell,
    And called it a—­heal-th resort.”

The postmistress waited for the last note of the chorus to die away, and read from a package she held in her hand—­“’Mrs. Henry Lee, Deer Lodge, Wyoming.’  Well, Henry, here’s a wedding-present, I guess.  And my congratulations, though you’ve hardly treated us well in never saying a word.”

The unfortunate Henry, who hadn’t even a sweetheart, and who was noted as the shyest man in the “Goose Creek Outfit,” had to submit to the mock congratulations of every man in the room and promise to set up the drinks later.

“I never felt we’d keep you long, son; them golden curls seldom gets a chance to ripen singly.”

“Shoshone squaw, did you say she was, Henry?  They ain’t much for looks, but there’s a heep of wear to ’em.”

“Oh, go on, now; you fellows know I ain’t married.”  And the boy handled the package with a sort of dumb wonder, as if the superscription were indisputable evidence of a wife’s existence.

“Open it, Henry; you shore don’t harbor sentiments of curiosity regarding the post-office dealings of your lady.”

“Now, old man, this here may be grounds for divorce.”

“See what the other fellow’s sending your wife.”

Henry, badgered, jostled, the target of many a homely witticism, finally opened the package, which proved to be a sample bottle of baby food.  At sight of it they howled like Apaches, and Henry was again forced to receive their congratulations.  Judith, who had been an interested on-looker without joining in the merriment, now detected in the tenor of their humor a tendency towards breadth.  In an instant her manner was official; rapping the table with her mailing-stamp, she announced: 

“Boys, this post-office closes in ten minutes, if you want to buy any stamps.”

The silence following this statement on the part of the postmistress was instantaneous.  Henry took his mirth-provoking package and went his way; some of the more hilariously inclined followed him.  The remainder confined themselves absolutely to business, scrawling postal-cards or reading their mail.  The pounce of the official stamp on the letters, as the postmistress checked them off for the mail-bag, was the only sound in the hot stillness.