and fidgeted.

"Well, I'll be in town to-morrer," he said, drearily.

"Aha," assented Hardy.

"What ye got there?" inquired Creede, after a long silence. He picked
up the book, griming the dainty pages as he turned them with his rough
fingers, glancing at the headings.

"Um-huh," he grunted, "'Sonnets from the Portegees,' eh? I never
thought them Dagos could write--what I've seen of 'em was mostly
drivin' fish-wagons or swampin' around some slaughterhouse. How does
she go, now," he continued, as his schooling came back to him, "see
if I can make sense out of it." He bent down and mumbled over the
first sonnet, spelling out the long words doubtfully.

"I thought once how The-o-crite-us had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And as I mused it in his an--"

"Well say, what's he drivin' at, anyway?" demanded the rugged cowboy.
"Is that Dago talk, or is he jest mixed in his mind? Perfectly clear,
eh? Well, maybe so, but I fail to see it. Wish I could git aholt of
some _good_ po'try." He paused, waiting for Hardy to respond.

"Say," he said, at last, "do me a favor, will ye, Rufe?"

The tone of his voice, now soft and diffident, startled Hardy out of
his dream.

"Why sure, Jeff," he said, "if I can."

"No, no 'ifs' and 'ands' about it!" persisted Creede. "A lucky feller
like you with everythin' comin' his way ought to be able to say 'Yes'
once in a while without hangin' a pull-back on it."

"Huh," grunted Hardy suspiciously, "you better tell me first what you
want."

"Well, I want you to write me a letter," blurted out Creede. "I can
keep a tally book and order up the grub from Bender; but, durn the
luck, when it comes to makin' love on paper I'd rather wrastle a bear.
Course you know who it is, and you savvy how them things is done.
Throw in a little po'try, will you, and--and--say, Rufe, for God's
sake, help me out on this!"

He laid one hand appealingly upon his partner's shoulder, but the
little man squirmed out from under it impatiently.

"Who is it?" he asked doggedly. "Sallie Winship?"

"Aw, say," protested Creede, "don't throw it into a feller like
that--Sal went back on me years ago. You know who I mean--Kitty
Bonnair."

"Kitty Bonnair!" Hardy had known it, but he had tried to keep her name
unspoken. Battle as he would he could not endure to h