"—that Laramie wido' promised you—"
"Shucks!"
"—only her docter suddenly ordered Southern climate and—"
"Shucks! You're a false alarm."
"—so nothing but her lungs came between you. And next you'd most got united with Cattle Kate, only—"
"Tell you you're a false alarm!"
"—only she got hung."
"Where's the wives in all this? Show the wives! Come now!"
"That corn-fed biscuit-shooter at Rawlins yu' gave the canary—"
"Never married her. Never did marry—"
"But yu' come so near, uncle! She was the one left yu' that letter explaining how she'd got married to a young cyard-player the very day before her ceremony with you was due, and—"
"Oh, you're nothing; you're a kid; you don't amount to—"
"—and how she'd never, never forgot to feed the canary."
"This country's getting full of kids," stated the old man, witheringly. "It's doomed." This crushing assertion plainly satisfied him. And he blinked his eyes with renewed anticipation. His tall tormentor continued with a face of unchanging gravity, and a voice of gentle solicitude:—
"How is the health of that unfortunate—"
"That's right! Pour your insults! Pour 'em on a sick, afflicted woman!" The eyes blinked with combative relish.
"Insults? Oh, no, Uncle Hughey!"
