worked fine, Dick. She sorter feels 'er
oats now. She always did hold 'er head in the air, but it's higher now
since she got rich. She mought take a fool notion that the bronco
throwed you powerful soon after her change o' luck."

"I don't want 'er dern money!" Dick Wrinkle snarled, his glance shifting
unsteadily. "I don't need _anybody's_ cash. I've got a thousand dollars
in my pocket now."

"You say you have?" The eyes under the bushy gray brows fluttered
thoughtfully. "Well, if I was you, I believe, Dick, that I'd not haul it
out an' make a show of it. You see--well, you see, it's like this: Het's
a thinkin' woman, an' sorter keen-eyed at times, when she wants to be,
an' lookin' at a wad like that mought--I don't say, it _would_--but it
mought, bein' a sort o' money-maker herself, it mought set her to
wonderin' how a feller clean out o' his senses could accumulate so much
cash in times as hard as these. If crazy fellers kin load up like that
out thar, men of brains could walk clean off with the State."

Dick Wrinkle started slightly and let his glance trail along the ground,
in several directions before lifting it again to the would-be helpful
countenance before him.

"I made it _after I got my senses back_," he said, finally, and rather
doggedly.

"Well, I don't believe I'd let that out, _nuther_," said old Wrinkle, in
a tone that was meant to be kindness itself. "You see, Dick, the bronco
throwed you just t'other day, an' a thing like that is liable to git you
all balled up. A woman like Het mought ax a heap o' fool questions, an'
you hain't had yore right mind back long enough to go into a game like
that yet awhile."

"Oh, I don't give a damn, one way or another!" the younger snorted. "It
ain't any o' her business, nohow where I was nor how long I was gone.
She's my wife, I ain't the fust man that ever went away for a spell and
then come home."

"I was jest wonderin'," the old man said, soothingly, "if yore old
high-an'-mighty way wouldn't be best, Dick. All the tornado an'
buckin'-bronco business may be a waste of talk. Het tuck to you in the
fust place beca'se you sorter held a tight rein over 'er, an', if I'm
any judge, Alf Henley, with all his easy ways an' indulgence, hain't
driv' her over any smooth road. I've heard it said that a woman will
kitten to a man that beats 'er quicker 'n she'll kitten to one that
kittens to her; an', if you set in on this fine place with a bowed head,
you'll be duckin' a