“Miss Artemisia was to get $10,000.  If she won the suit that was all; and if she lost she was to get it anyhow.  There was a signed contract to that effect.

“Sometimes they had me out with ’em, but not often.  I couldn’t keep up to their style.  She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like bills of lading.

“‘Say, you!’ she’d say.  ’What do you call this—­letter to a Hardware Merchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash?  You Eastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas grasshopper does about tugboats.  “My dear Miss Blye!”—­wouldn’t that put pink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake?  How long do you expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?  You want to get down to business, and call me “Tweedlums Babe” and “Honeysuckle,” and sign yourself “Mama’s Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy” if you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs.  Get sappy.’

“After that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco.  His notes read like something or other in the original.  I could see a jury sitting up, and women tearing one another’s hats to hear ’em read.  And I could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as Archbishop Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever enjoyed.  He seemed mighty pleased at the prospects.

“They agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn restaurant and watched ’em.  A process-server walked in and handed Vaucross the papers at his table.  Everybody looked at ’em; and he looked as proud as Cicero.  I went back to my room and lit a five-cent cigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.

“About two hours later somebody knocked at my door.  There stood Vaucross and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging—­yes, sir, clinging—­to his arm.  And they tells me they’d been out and got married.  And they articulated some trivial cadences about love and such.  And they laid down a bundle on the table and said ‘Good night’ and left.

“And that’s why I say,” concluded Ferguson Pogue, “that a woman is too busy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as is given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great success in special lines.”

“What was in the bundle that they left?” I asked, with my usual curiosity.

“Why,” said Ferguson, “there was a scalper’s railroad ticket as far as Kansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross’s old pants.”

IX

THE CALL OF THE TAME