"But I guess it might be good for her to tell her, when you're gone, and let her grieve. Snap judgment ain't fair to a man, and it's harder on a woman, every time. I took it on you that day, but I wasn't so bull-headed I couldn't be reasoned out of it, was I, Texas?"
"You've al-ways been mighty liberal with me, Uncle Boley, even when things looked bad."
"Yes, and I wanted you to like Sallie, tooth and toe-nail, dang the luck! But I'm done with women, I'm through. I ain't a goin' to marry no more; I'm a goin' to take my pen in hand to-night and write to that girl up in Topeky and tell her she don't need to bother about comin' down to look at m' teeth, I'll tell her I lost the last one of 'em I could chaw on this afternoon."
Texas said nothing, although he applauded Uncle Boley's resolution in his heart. For he knew that if Gertie Moorehead ever came to Cottonwood she would marry the old man for his pension. There was the look of a home-hunter in her starved eyes, as hungry as a lost hound's.
"I guess Sallie and her mother woti't be needin' me no more, either, since they've got money agin," Uncle Boley said, very sadly.
"Surely, sir, that never can make any difference between them and you. Gratitude for what you've been to them will hold them your friends."
