s a heap o' killin.' John up an lived--
an' _married_! He married my girl, too, Susie Bunker. Susie felt
awful sorry for him, for that there rebel bullet had kinder made
scrambled eggs with pore John's brains. I let Susie marry John,
because I knew that he needed a good woman's keer. And then Johnnie
was born: a whoppin' baby, but with a leetle something missin' in his
purty head. Then John died, and soon enough Susie got peaked-face an'
lost her relish fer food. She tuk a notion that John needed her
t'otherside. Just afore she sent in her checks, she give me Johnnie,
an' she ast my pardon for marryin' John instead o' me. I tole her she
done right. An' I promised to look after Johnnie. Up to date, boys, I
hev. But now that darned widder woman has onexpectedly kidnapped him.
What kin I do?"

"The widow will look after both of you," I suggested.

"What! Share my Johnnie with her? Not much. She stole that there boy
from me by force. By Jing! I'll take him from her without liftin' a
finger. Ye see, Johnnie is mighty apt to disappint the widder.
Sometimes--more often than not--Johnnie _is_--disappintin'! I
allus jedge the pore boy by contrairies. Most o' men when they marry
air apt to forgit them as raised 'em, but Johnnie'll pine fer me. I
know it. Bless his heart, he can't git along nohow without me."

Listening to this simple talk, watching the old man's rough, honest
face, my own heart grew chill with apprehension. The widow had a small
income and many charms. It was certain that Johnnie's curly hair,
bright blue eyes, and stalwart figure had captivated her fancy. Pity
had bloomed into love. The pair must have driven--as fast as the
widow's steed could travel--into San Lorenzo. By this time, high noon,
the licence, doubtless, had been issued and the marriage solemnised by
parson or justice of the peace. Once married, no man--not even old man
Kapus--would be justified in tearing Bumblepuppy from the fond arms of
his bride.

We asked Johnnie's uncle to dine with us. He thanked us warmly.

"Boys, you surmise that I'm feelin' lonesome. And I am. But I won't be
lonesome long. The widder can't let that cow o' hers go without two
milkin's, an' her pigs an' chickens must be fed. She'll be back in the
village 'bout four or five; an' to-night, to-night, boys, my Johnnie
'll be home to supper."

Ajax discreetly descanted upon the widow's fine complexion, but old
man Kapus lent him but an indifferent ear.

"She's fat an' sl