et at
scrubbing floors. He's less fractious and slothful since he was up-ended
and spanked in presence of a lady, but on the other hand, there's a lack
of joy, cheerfulness, and application. He's too full of dumb yearnings,
and his pure white soul seems to worry him, but then there's bucking
horses for him to ride in spring, and first exercises in bears. My bear
had ought to be a powerful tonic.

I sent a cable message by Tearful George to the song and dance artist
who's running the swine's opery, just inquiring if he'd remitted
Salvator to collect my wife. The reply is indignant to say that the
swine is a liar. Likewise there's a paragraph in the Vancouver papers
about the illustrious young composer, Salvator Milani, who's
disappeared, it seems, into the wilds. His wife is desolated, his kids
is frantic, the Salvatori, a musical society, is offering rewards, which
may come in useful, and the rest of mankind throws fits. This paper owns
up that the departed is careless and absent-minded, and I just pause to
observe that he hasn't made my bed. He'll have some quirt for supper.

As to my wife, she'd never believe that the swine wasn't sent to fetch
her, or that he's deserted his wife and family. She thinks he's a little
cock angel, and me a cock devil. She'll have to find him out for
herself.

VII

My wife has run away with him.

VIII

I could pick stars like apples. Here's me with my pipe and dog in my
home, and my dear wife content. The Dook of London has no more, except
frills. I hardly know whar to begin, 'cept whar I left off without
mentioning how they run away. The illustrious didn't have the nerve, so
it was my lady who stole over to stable in the dead of night, and
harnessed the team so silent I never woke. She drove off with her
trunks, the puppy piano, and her swine, on a bitter night with eighty
mile ahead before she'd get any help if things went wrong. She has the
pure grit, my great thoroughbred lady, and it makes me feel real good to
think of the way she followed her conscience along that unholy trail
through the black pines.

By dawn she put up for breakfast at O'Flynn's. The widow had broke her
leg reproaching a cow, and sent off her son to the carpenter at Hundred
and Fifty Mile House to get the same repaired. Her bed was beside the
stove, with cord-wood, water, and grub all within reach. It was real
awkward though that the stove had petered out, and the water bucket
froze solid while she s