"if yu' could read me
something that was ABOUT something, I--I'd be liable to keep awake." And
he smiled with a certain shyness.

"Something ABOUT something?" queried Molly, at a loss.

"Why, yes. Shakespeare. HENRY THE FOURTH. The British king is fighting,
and there is his son the prince. He cert'nly must have been a jim-dandy
boy if that is all true. Only he would go around town with a mighty
triflin' gang. They sported and they held up citizens. And his father
hated his travelling with trash like them. It was right natural--the boy
and the old man! But the boy showed himself a man too. He killed a big
fighter on the other side who was another jim-dandy--and he was sorry
for having it to do." The Virginian warmed to his recital. "I understand
most all of that. There was a fat man kept everybody laughing. He was
awful natural too; except yu' don't commonly meet 'em so fat. But the
prince--that play is bed-rock, ma'am! Have you got something like that?"

"Yes, I think so," she replied. "I believe I see what you would
appreciate."

She took her Browning, her idol, her imagined affinity. For the pale
decadence of New England had somewhat watered her good old Revolutionary
blood too, and she was inclined to think under glass and to live
underdone--when there were no Indians to shoot! She would have joyed to
venture "Paracelsus" on him, and some lengthy rhymed discourses; and she
fondly turned leaves and leaves of her pet doggerel analytics. "Pippa
Passes" and others she had to skip, from discreet motives--pages which
he would have doubtless stayed awake at; but she chose a poem at length.
This was better than Emma, he pronounced. And short. The horse was a
good horse. He thought a man whose horse must not play out on him would
watch the ground he was galloping over for holes, and not be likely to
see what color the rims of his animal's eye-sockets were. You could not
see them if you sat as you ought to for such a hard ride. Of the next
piece that she read him he thought still better. "And it is short," said
he. "But the last part drops."

Molly instantly exacted particulars.

"The soldier should not have told the general he was killed," stated the
cow-puncher.

"What should he have told him, I'd like to know?" said Molly.

"Why, just nothing. If the soldier could ride out of the battle all shot
up, and tell his general about their takin' the town--that was being
gritty, yu' see. But that truck at the finish--will