into the drink on account of a woman.
When there were plenty of them. Large assortment constantly on hand. Pays
yer money and takes yer ch'ice! Suicide? Not much, by George! he! he!

Hung his coat on a hickory limb,
Then like a wise man he jumped in,
My ole dad! My ole dad!

Wondered what tune Charlton would sing when he found himself beat? Guess
'twould be:

Can't stay in de wilderness.
In a few days, in a few days,
Can't stay in de wilderness,
A few days ago.

Goin' to pre-empt my claim, too. I've got a month's leave, and I'll
follow him and marry that girl before he gets far. Bruddern and sistern,
sing de ole six hundredth toon. Ahem!

I wish I was a married man,
A married man I'd be!
An' ketch the grub fer both of us
A-fishin' in the sea.
Big fish,
Little fish,
It's all the same to me!

I got a organ stop in my throat. Can't sing below my breath to save my
life. He! he!

After three days had elapsed, Westcott sent a still more melancholy note
to Katy. It made her weep from the first line to the last. It was full of
heartbreak, and Katy was too unobserving to notice how round and steady
and commercial the penmanship was, and how large and fine were the
flourishes. Westcott himself considered it his masterpiece. He punched
his crony with his elbow as he deposited it in the office, and assured
him that it was the techin'est note ever written. It would come the
sympathies over her. There was nothing like the sympathies to fetch a
woman to terms. He knew. Had lots of experience. By George! You could
turn a woman round yer finger if you could only keep on the tender side.
Tears was what done it. Love wouldn' keep sweet without it was pickled in
brine. He! he! he! By George!

CHAPTER XX.

SAWNEY AND WESTCOTT.

David Sawney was delighted with the news that Albert Charlton and Smith
Westcott had quarreled. "Westcott's run of luck in that quarter's broke.
When a feller has a run of luck right along, and they comes a break, 'ts
all up with him. Broke luck can't be spliced. It's David Sawney's turn
now. Poor wind that blows no whar. I'll bet a right smart pile I'll pack
the little gal off yet."

But if an inscrutable Providence had omitted to make any Smith Westcotts,
Dave Sawney wouldn't have stood the ghost of a chance with Katy. His
supreme self-complacency gave her no occasion to pity him. Her love was
close of kin to her tender-heartedness, and all pity was