need naming, who was evidently making reparation for the errors of his youth by according to the mother as good treatment as the daughter under the same roof.  Not a name was mentioned except Calamity’s.  I trust it is obvious to you that it was not libelous, because it was without malice.  In fact, if you want to know the ear marks of a handy man’s “story,” look out for the smart gentlemen in veiled references without any facts which can be transfixed by either a pin or a handspike.  When you find the innuendo without the handhold of fact, lick your lips if you are keen on carrion; for I promise that you have come on a morsel.

Bat did even better than the clever story dictated straight to the typo in the composing room.  Always in the West, there flit in and out what we Westerners used to call “floaters,” gentlemen (and ladies) who come in on a pullman car and go out on a pullman car and sometimes venture as far away from safety as a hotel rotunda, then syndicate their impressions of the West, in the East, and gravely correct twenty year Westerners with twenty minute impressions.  I don’t believe on the whole, as Westerners, we like them very much; but obviously, one doesn’t kill a mosquito with a hammer.

Bat caught such a floater on the delayed transcontinental express.  He was seeing the West through a car window.  The East will not see the jocularity of that fact.  The West will, though it may smile with a twist.  Bat’s floater was working for a Chicago boomster, who had issued a magazine to boom Western real estate, suburban lots seven miles from a flat car, which was all there was of the city.  For exactly fifteen dollars (when the floater’s impressions came out, I made exact inquiries as to what Bat had paid him; and it seemed to me that floater sold himself very cheap) the travelling impressionist took over Bat’s story of “the Pretty Scandal in Peaceful Valley” and rehashed it with the name MacDonald given as Macdonel, and syndicated the scandal against the Forest Service throughout the East.

The transcontinental express had made up lost time and came roaring in just as the stage rattled up to the platform.  MacDonald and Williams stepped off the observation car.  Eleanor shook hands.

“You know about the sheep?” she asked.

“Yes, we have your letter,” answered MacDonald.  “That’s why we stayed so long buying grazing ground in the Upper Pass.”

“Here, boy.”  He bought an evening paper; and helped Eleanor inside the stage.  Then he mounted to the top with Williams.  There were only three other occupants in the stage, the lady of the lavender silks, the gold teeth, and a workman, sodden drunk and drowsy, in the upper corner.  The lady of the lavender silks had a complexion that looked as if it had been dipped in a fountain of perennial youth.  She was leaning over the evening paper which the undertaker plumes had evidently shown her.  The heat had not improved Eleanor’s stiff linen collar and the dust had certainly not added to the style of her kakhi motor coat.  It was not until afterwards she remembered how both the heads flew apart from the evening paper the moment she entered the stage.