Sabe on Hilma's birthday, empty-handed, and, on leaving Genslinger's
house, he turned his pony's head toward the business part of the town
again pulling up in front of the jeweller's, just as the clerk was
taking down the shutters.

At the jeweller's, he purchased a little brooch for Hilma and at the
cigar stand in the lobby of the Yosemite House, a box of superfine
cigars, which, when it was too late, he realised that the master
of Quien Sabe would never smoke, holding, as he did, with defiant
inconsistency, to miserable weeds, black, bitter, and flagrantly
doctored, which he bought, three for a nickel, at Guadalajara.

Presley arrived at Quien Sabe nearly half an hour behind the appointed
time; but, as he had expected, the party were in no way ready to start.
The carry-all, its horses covered with white fly-nets, stood under a
tree near the house, young Vacca dozing on the seat. Hilma and Sidney,
the latter exuberant with a gayety that all but brought the tears to
Presley's eyes, were making sandwiches on the back porch. Mrs. Dyke was
nowhere to be seen, and Annixter was shaving himself in his bedroom.

This latter put a half-lathered face out of the window as Presley
cantered through the gate, and waved his razor with a beckoning motion.

"Come on in, Pres," he cried. "Nobody's ready yet. You're hours ahead of
time."

Presley came into the bedroom, his huge spur clinking on the straw
matting. Annixter was without coat, vest or collar, his blue silk
suspenders hung in loops over either hip, his hair was disordered, the
crown lock stiffer than ever.

"Glad to see you, old boy," he announced, as Presley came in. "No, don't
shake hands, I'm all lather. Here, find a chair, will you? I won't be
long."

"I thought you said ten o'clock," observed Presley, sitting down on the
edge of the bed.

"Well, I did, but----"

"But, then again, in a way, you didn't, hey?" his friend interrupted.

Annixter grunted good-humouredly, and turned to strop his razor. Presley
looked with suspicious disfavour at his suspenders.

"Why is it," he observed, "that as soon as a man is about to get
married, he buys himself pale blue suspenders, silk ones? Think of it.
You, Buck Annixter, with sky-blue, silk suspenders. It ought to be a
strap and a nail."

"Old fool," observed Annixter, whose repartee was the heaving of brick
bats. "Say," he continued, holding the razor from his face, and jerking
his head over his shoulder, while he lo