“I reckon, too, that she’s kinder afraid he’ll bolt agin.  Did ye notice how she kept watchin’ him all the time, and how she did the bossin’ o’ everything?  And there’s one thing sure!  He’s changed—­yes!  He don’t look as keerless and free and foolish ez he uster.”

Here there was an unmistakable chorus of assent from the crowd that had joined them.  Every one—­even those who had not been introduced to the mother—­had noticed his strange restraint and reticence.  In the impulsive logic of the camp, conduct such as this, in the face of that superior woman—­his mother—­could only imply that her presence was distasteful to him; that he was either ashamed of their noticing his inferiority to her, or ashamed of them!  Wild and hasty as was their deduction, it was, nevertheless, voiced by Joe Wynbrook in a tone of impartial and even reluctant conviction.  “Well, gentlemen, some of ye may remember that when I heard that Prossy was bringin’ his mother here I kicked—­kicked because it only stood to reason that, being his mother, she’d be that foolish she’d upset the camp.  There wasn’t room enough for two such chuckle-heads—­and one of ’em being a woman, she couldn’t be shut up or sat upon ez we did to him.  But now, gentlemen, ez we see she ain’t that kind, but high-toned and level-headed, and that she’s got the grip on Prossy—­whether he likes it or not—­we ain’t goin’ to let him go back on her!  No, sir! we ain’t goin’ to let him break her heart the second time!  He may think we ain’t good enough for her, but ez long ez she’s civil to us, we’ll stand by her.”

In this conscientious way were the shackles of that unhallowed relationship slowly riveted on the unfortunate Prossy.  In his intercourse with his comrades during the next two or three days their attitude was shown in frequent and ostentatious praise of his mother, and suggestive advice, such as:  “I wouldn’t stop at the saloon, Prossy; your old mother is wantin’ ye;” or, “Chuck that ’ere tarpolin over your shoulders, Pross, and don’t take your wet duds into the house that yer old mother’s bin makin’ tidy.”  Oddly enough, much of this advice was quite sincere, and represented—­for at least twenty minutes—­the honest sentiments of the speaker.  Prosper was touched at what seemed a revival of the sentiment under which he had acted, forgot his uneasiness, and became quite himself again—­a fact also noticed by his critics.  “Ye’ve only to keep him up to his work and he’ll be the widder’s joy agin,” said Cyrus Brewster.  Certainly he was so far encouraged that he had a long conversation with Mrs. Pottinger that night, with the result that the next morning Joe Wynbrook, Cyrus Brewster, Hank Mann, and Kentucky Ike were invited to spend the evening at the new house.  As the men, clean shirted and decently jacketed, filed into the neat sitting room with its bright carpet, its cheerful fire, its side table with a snowy cloth on which shining tea and coffee pots were standing, their hearts thrilled with satisfaction.  In a large stuffed rocking chair, Prossy’s old mother, wrapped up in a shawl and some mysterious ill health which seemed to forbid any exertion, received them with genteel languor and an extended black mitten.