n with,
he stepped out with a brisk, false hope. It was with a mental hurrah and
a foretaste of a good time coming that he put on his town clothes, after
shaving and admiring himself, and sat down to the square meal. He ate
away and drank with a robust imitation of enjoyment that took in even
himself at first. But the sorrowful process of his spirit went on, for
all he could do. As he groped for the contentment which he saw around
him he began to receive the jokes with counterfeit mirth. Memories took
the place of anticipation, and through their moody shiftings he began
to feel a distaste for the company of his friends and a shrinking from
their lively voices. He blamed them for this at once. He was surprised
to think he had never recognized before how light a weight was Shorty;
and here was Chalkeye, who knew better, talking religion after two
glasses. Presently this attack of noticing his friends' shortcomings
mastered him, and his mind, according to its wont, changed at a stroke.
"I'm celebrating no Christmas with this crowd," said the inner man; and
when they had next remembered Lin McLean in their hilarity he was gone.

Governor Barker, finishing his purchases at half-past three, went to
meet a friend come from Evanston. Mr. McLean was at the railway station,
buying a ticket for Denver.

"Denver!" exclaimed the amazed Governor.

"That's what I said," stated Mr. McLean, doggedly.

"Gee whiz!" went his Excellency. "What are you going to do there?"

"Get good and drunk."

"Can't you find enough whiskey in Cheyenne?"

"I'm drinking champagne this trip."

The cow-puncher went out on the platform and got aboard, and the train
moved off. Barker had walked out too in his surprise, and as he stared
after the last car, Mr. McLean waved his wide hat defiantly and went
inside the door.

"And he says he's got maturity," Barker muttered. "I've known him since
seventy-nine, and he's kept about eight years old right along." The
Governor was cross, and sorry, and presently crosser. His jokes about
Lin's marriage came back to him and put him in a rage with the departed
fool. "Yes, about eight. Or six," said his Excellency, justifying
himself by the past. For he had first known Lin, the boy of nineteen,
supreme in length of limb and recklessness, breaking horses and feeling
for an early mustache. Next, when the mustache was nearly accomplished,
he had mended the boy's badly broken thigh at Drybone. His skill (and
Lin's utt