ded Steve of Oscar and me in his
deepest bass. No, we didn't object; we fell down in the snow and
crowed like chanticleer.

"Hunh!" snorted Charley. "Hunh! Them boys hain't got brains in their
heads at all--nothin' but doodle-bugs!"

"Well, Charley," continued Steve, "as you don't object, and they don't
object, and I don't object, for God's sake let's have breakfast!"

"I'll go you, Steve," replied Charles seriously, and we entered the
house uproarious.

There in the kitchen was Mrs. Steve and the "company," a pretty little
bright-eyed thing, whose colour went and came at a word--more
particularly if Oscar said the word. The affair was at present in the
formal state--the dawn of realisation that two such wonderful and
magnificent creatures as Oscar and Sally existed. But they were not
Oscar and Sally except in the dear privacy of their souls. Yet how
much that is not obvious to the careless ear can be put into "Will you
have a buckwheat cake, Mr. Kendall?" or "May I give you a helping of
the syrup, Miss Brown?" It took some preparation for each to get out
so simple a remark, and invariably the one addressed started guiltily,
and got crimson. It was the most uncomfortable rapture I ever saw,
However, they received very little plaguing. I can remember but one
hard hit. Oscar was pouring syrup upon Sally's cakes, his eyes fixed
upon a dainty hand, that shook under his gaze like a leaf. He forgot
his business. Steve looked at the inverted, empty syrup-cup for some
moments in silence. Then he said to his wife, "Emma, go and get Sally
a nice cupful of fresh air to put on her cakes; that that Oscar has in
the pitcher is stale by this time."

[Illustration: The affair was at present in the formal state]

Oh, those cakes! And the ham! And the fried eggs and potatoes. We
lived like fighting cocks at Steve's, as happens on most of the small
ranches. The extreme glory of the prairie was not ours. We were
wood-choppers, hay-cutters, and farmers, as well as punchers; but what
we lost in romance, we made up in sustenance. No one ever saw a
biscuit suffering from soda-jaundice on Steve's table. And how, after
a night's sleep in a temperature of forty below zero, I would champ my
teeth on the path to breakfast! Eating was not an appetite in those
days--it was a passion.

Charley and I went forth after breakfast, Oscar lingering a moment,
according to his use, to pass a painful five minutes in making excuses