Ain't I to never have any pleasure in life while I can?'
'Pass this chatfield- chatfield thing along,' says Redruth;—'hand out the mitt to the Willie with creases in it or you don't put your slippers under my wardrobe.'
"Now that kind of train orders don't go with a girl that's got any spirit.
I bet that girl loved her honey all the time.
Maybe she only wanted, as girls do, to work the good thing for a little fun and caramels before she settled down to patch George's other pair, and be a good wife.
But he is glued to the high horse, and won't come down.
Well, she hands him back the ring, proper enough; and George goes away and hits the booze.
Yep.
That's what done it.
I bet that girl fired the cornucopia with the fancy vest two days after her steady left.
George boards a freight and checks his bag of crackers for parts unknown.
He sticks to Old Booze for a number of years; and then the aniline and aquafortis gets the decision.
'Me for the hermit's hut,' says George, 'and the long whiskers, and the buried can of money that isn't there.'
"But that Alice, in my mind, was on the level.
She never married, but took up typewriting as soon as the wrinkles began to show, and kept a cat that came when you said 'weeny—weeny—weeny!'
I got too much faith in good women to believe they throw down the fellow they're stuck on every time for the dough."
The windmill man ceased.
"I think," said the lady passenger, slightly moving upon her lowly throne, "that that is a char—"
"Oh, Miss Garland!" interposed Judge Menefee, with uplifted hand,
"I beg of you, no comments!
It would not be fair to the other contestants.
Mr.—er—will you take the next turn?" The Judge addressed the young man who had the Agency.
"My version of the romance," began the young man, diffidently clasping his hands, "would be this: They did not quarrel when they parted.
Mr. Redruth bade her good-by and went out into the world to seek his fortune.
He knew his love would remain true to him.
He scorned the thought that his rival could make an impression upon a heart so fond and faithful.
I would say that Mr. Redruth went out to the Rocky Mountains in Wyoming to seek for gold.
One day a crew of pirates landed and captured him while at work, and—"
"Hey! what's that?" sharply called the passenger who was nobody in particular—"a crew of pirates landed in the Rocky Mountains!
Will you tell us how they sailed—"
"Landed from a train," said the narrator, quietly and not without some readiness.
"They kept him prisoner in a cave for months, and then they took him hundreds of miles away to the forests of Alaska.
There a beautiful Indian girl fell in love with him, but he remained true to Alice.
After another year of wandering in the woods, he set out with the diamonds—"
"What diamonds?" asked the unimportant passenger, almost with acerbity.
"The ones the saddlemaker showed him in the Peruvian temple," said the other, somewhat obscurely.
"When he reached home, Alice's mother led him, weeping, to a green mound under a willow tree.
'Her heart was broken when you left,' said her mother.
'And what of my rival—of Chester McIntosh?' asked Mr. Redruth, as he knelt sadly by Alice's grave.
'When he found out,' she answered, 'that her heart was yours, he pined away day by day until, at length, he started a furniture store in Grand Rapids.
We heard lately that he was bitten to death by an infuriated moose near South Bend, Ind., where he had gone to try to forget scenes of civilisation.'
With which, Mr. Redruth forsook the face of mankind and became a hermit, as we have seen.
"My story," concluded the young man with an Agency, "may lack the literary quality; but what I wanted it to show is that the young lady remained true.
She cared nothing for wealth in comparison with true affection.
I admire and believe in the fair sex too much to think otherwise."
The narrator ceased, with a sidelong glance at the corner where reclined the lady passenger.
Bildad Rose was next invited by Judge Menefee to contribute his story in the contest for the apple of judgment.
The stage-driver's essay was brief.
"I'm not one of them lobo wolves," he said, "who are always blaming on women the calamities of life.
My testimony in regards to the fiction story you ask for, Judge, will be about as follows: What ailed Redruth was pure laziness.