“By and by, after we had eat oysters and some watery soup and truck that never was in my repertory, a Methodist preacher brings in a kind of camp stove arrangement, all silver, on long legs, with a lamp under it.

“Miss Sterling lights up and begins to do some cooking right on the supper table.  I wondered why old man Sterling didn’t hire a cook, with all the money he had.  Pretty soon she dished out some cheesy tasting truck that she said was rabbit, but I swear there had never been a Molly cotton tail in a mile of it.

“The last thing on the programme was lemonade.  It was brought around in little flat glass bowls and set by your plate.  I was pretty thirsty, and I picked up mine and took a big swig of it.  Right there was where the little lady had made a mistake.  She had put in the lemon all right, but she’d forgot the sugar.  The best housekeepers slip up sometimes.  I thought maybe Miss Sterling was just learning to keep house and cook—­that rabbit would surely make you think so—­and I says to myself, ‘Little lady, sugar or no sugar I’ll stand by you,’ and I raises up my bowl again and drinks the last drop of the lemonade.  And then all the balance of ’em picks up their bowls and does the same.  And then I gives Miss Sterling the laugh proper, just to carry it off like a joke, so she wouldn’t feel bad about the mistake.

“After we all went into the sitting room she sat down and talked to me quite awhile.

“‘It was so kind of you, Mr. Kingsbury,’ says she, ’to bring my blunder off so nicely.  It was so stupid of me to forget the sugar.’

“‘Never you mind,’ says I, ’some lucky man will throw his rope over a mighty elegant little housekeeper some day, not far from here.’

“‘If you mean me, Mr. Kingsbury,’ says she, laughing out loud, ’I hope he will be as lenient with my poor housekeeping as you have been.’

“‘Don’t mention it,’ says I.  ‘Anything to oblige the ladies.’”

Bud ceased his reminiscences.  And then some one asked him what he considered the most striking and prominent trait of New Yorkers.

“The most visible and peculiar trait of New York folks,” answered Bud, “is New York.  Most of ’em has New York on the brain.  They have heard of other places, such as Waco, and Paris, and Hot Springs, and London; but they don’t believe in ’em.  They think that town is all Merino.  Now to show you how much they care for their village I’ll tell you about one of ’em that strayed out as far as the Triangle B while I was working there.

“This New Yorker come out there looking for a job on the ranch.  He said he was a good horseback rider, and there was pieces of tanbark hanging on his clothes yet from his riding school.

“Well, for a while they put him to keeping books in the ranch store, for he was a devil at figures.  But he got tired of that, and asked for something more in the line of activity.  The boys on the ranch liked him all right, but he made us tired shouting New York all the time.  Every night he’d tell us about East River and J. P. Morgan and the Eden Musee and Hetty Green and Central Park till we used to throw tin plates and branding irons at him.