her arms, sound
asleep, and it wasn't till she stepped under the gaslight that she
seen us.

"'Oh!' she cried, and went white as the lace of her cloak. Then she
hugged the kiddie clost to her, standing straight and queenly, her
eyes ablaze, her lips moist, and red, and scornful.

"God, she was grand--but him? He looked like a barnacle.

"'Olive!' says he, bull-froggy, and that's all. Just quit like a dog
and ate her up by long-distance eyesight. Lord! Nobody would have
knowed him for the same man that called the crookedest gamblers on
the Yukon, and bolted newspaper men raw. He had ingrowing language.
It oozed out through his pores till he dreened like a harvest hand.
I'd have had her in my arms in two winks, so that all hell and a
policeman couldn't have busted my holt till she'd said she loved me.

"She shrivelled him with a look, the likes of which ain't strayed
over the Mason-Dixon line since Lee surrendered, and swept by us,
invitin' an' horspitable as an iceberg in a cross sea. Her cab door
slammed, and I yanked Morrow out of there, more dead than alive.

"'Let me go home,' says he wearily.

"'You bet!' I snorts. 'It's time you was tucked in. The dew is
fallin' and some rude person might accost you. You big slob!
There's a man's work to do to-night, and as I don't seem to have no
competition in holding the title, I s'pose it's my lead.' I throwed
him into a carriage. 'You'd best put on your nighty, and have the
maid turn down your light. Sweet dreams, Gussie!' I was plumb sore
on him. History don't record no divorce suits in the Stone Age, when
a domestic inclined man allus toted a white-oak billy, studded with
wire nails, according to the pictures, and didn't scruple to use it,
both at home and abroad. Women was hairy, them days, and harder to
make love, honour and obey; but principles is undyin'.

"I boarded another cab:

"'Drive me to number ----,' giving him the address I'd heard her use.

"'Who is it,' came her voice when I rang the bell.

"'Messenger boy,' I replies, perjuring my vocal cords.

"When she opened the door, I pushed through and closed it behind me.

"'What does this mean?' she cried. 'Help!'

"'Shut up! It means you're killing the best boy in the world, and I
want to know why.'

"'Who are you?'

"'I'm Bill Joyce, your husband's pardner. Old Tarantula Bill, that
don't fear no man, woman, or child that roams the forest. I'm here
to find what ails you--'

"'