That Elberton person must shore be uh collector uh knick-knacks and—I wonder if he was drunk, too?”

Buck Masterson walks in from th’ front and ranges alongside of Sig.

“I’ve sent fer th’ preacher,” he states.

But Sig jist grunts. He’s tryin’ to visualize th’ face on Jack Elberton, which would want to come clear to Piperock to kiss Miss Beebee.

“Did you know her name was Rosalind?” asks Sig.

“Shee,” says Buck, and then he gits confidential and talks in uh low tone. “Dog-gone th’ luck, Sig, I shore wish it was all over. It’s got me so danged jumpy that I flinches at everything. I wish—huh—I wish—say, Sig, uh feller hadn’t ought to drink whisky a-tall. He hadn’t ought to take even one li’l friendly drink. I’ll——”

“Say,” snorts Sig, “You don’t mean to tell me that you was full when you——”

“Fuller’n uh shepherd,” states Buck solemnly. “By cripes, I was so full that I’d have proposed to uh—say, where yuh goin’?”

“Me?” asks Sig, turnin’ around in th’ doorway, and holdin’ up his right hand. “I’m goin’ out to meet that preacher person and I’m—goin’—to—sign—th’ pledge! Sabe? Self-preservation is th’ first law of nature, and I’d rather be preserved than pickled. It’s safer.”

THE END

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1917 issue of Adventure magazine.

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