hat air into the tuneful horn
of the mechanical heavenly maid yonder? No reason, only it's got to be
a woman to sing that man's song of 'Annie Laurie.' A man couldn't any
more sing 'Annie Laurie' than you could make cocktails without bitters.
The only way we can get either one of them here is in bulk, which we
have done. It's canned Art, that's all. Owin' to our present
transportation facilities, everything has to come here in cans."

Dan Anderson arose and stretched out his arm. "Gentlemen," said he, "I
present to you Art!" He raised before him an imaginary glass, which we
all saw plainly. "I present to you the cool, pink, and well-flavored
combination of life and longing with a cherry at the bottom of it.
Thanks to Tom Osby, we have Art! We are not quite provincial. Listen
at Madame Donatelli tearin' it off in there! . . . Shoot him up,
boys!" he cried suddenly. "I'm damned if I'm going to look all my days
on the picture of a girl in a blue sash! The chief end of man is to
witness an ecru coyote and a few absolute human failures like you and
me. Down with the heavenly maid! Shoot him up! He's a destroyer of
the peace!"

So we shot up Tom's adobe for a time, joyously peppering the thick
walls, until at length that worthy came out annoyed, a phonograph
record in one hand and a gun in the other.

"Don't, fellers," said he. "You might break something."

"Come out," said Dan Anderson. "Not even grand opera lasts all night.
Besides, the price of the box seats is exorbitant. Come on. Get ready
to play croquet to-morrow. It's safer."

And so Tom Osby's entertainment came to an end for that evening. Our
little party straggled on up the long, deserted street of Heart's
Desire. Dan Anderson turned in at the post-office to see if the daily
paper from El Paso had come in that month.

It was something that Dan Anderson saw in the daily paper that caused
him on the following day to lead Tom Osby aside. "Did you know, Tom,"
said he, "that that opera singer you've got in your box, the 'Annie
Laurie' artist, is goin' to be down in this part of the world before
long?"

"I never _loved_ a fo-o-o-nd ga-aze-ll-lle!" began Tom Osby,
defensively.

"Well, it's true."

"What are you tellin' me?" said Tom, scornfully. "Comin' down here?
Why, don't it say that them things is all sung by _artists_?"

"So they are."

"Well, now, a artist," said Tom Osby argumentatively, "ain't never
comin' within a thousand m