n on anything you read in the
papers about matrimony's bein' a lost art, and collectin' affinities
bein' the latest fad; for the plain, straight, old,
love-honour-and-cherish business is still in the ring. I have
Pinckney's word for it, and Pinckney ought to know. Oh, yes, he's an
authority now. Sure, it was Miss Gerty, the twin tamer. And say, what
do you suppose they did with that gift pair of terrors, Jack and Jill,
while they was makin' the weddin' tour? Took 'em along. Honest, they
travels for ten weeks with two kids, five trunks, and a couple of maids.

"You don't look like no honeymoon couple," says I, when I meets 'em in
Jersey City. "I'd take you for an explorin' party."

"We are," says Pinckney, grinnin'. "We've been explorin' the western
part of the United States. We have discovered Colorado Springs, the
Yosemite, and a lot more very interesting places, all over again."

"You'll be makin' a new map, I expect," says I.

"It would be new to most New Yorkers," says he.

And I've been tryin' ever since to figure out whether or no that's a
knock. Now and then I has a suspicion that Pinckney's acquired some
new bug since he's been out through the alfalfa belt; but maybe his
idea of the West's bein' such a great place only comes from the fact
that Gerty was produced there. Perhaps it's all he says too; but I
notice he seems mighty glad to get back to Main-st., N. Y. You'd
thought so if you'd seen the way he trails me around over town the
first day after he lands. We was on the go from noon until one A. M.,
and his cab bill must have split a twenty up fine.

What tickles me, though, is that he's the same old Pinckney, only more
so. Bein' married don't seem to weigh no heavier on his mind than
joinin' another club. So, instead of me losin' track of him
altogether, he shows up here at the Studio oftener than before. And
that's how it was he happens to be on hand when this overgrown party
from the ham orchard blows in.

Just at the minute, though, Pinckney was back in the dressin' room,
climbin' into his frock coat after our little half-hour session on the
mat; so Swifty Joe and me was the reception committee.

As the door opens I looks up to see about seven foot of cinnamon brown
plaid cloth,--a little the homeliest stuff I ever see used for
clothes,--a red and green necktie, a face the colour of a ripe tomato,
and one of these buckskin tinted felt hats on top of that. Measurin'
from the peak