rought him many friendly messages from the schoolma'am, to which
he returned unfriendly answers. When he accused them openly of trying
to "load" him; they were shocked and grieved. They told him the
schoolma'am said she felt drawn to him--he looked so like her darling
brother who had spilled his precious blood on San Juan Hill. Cal
Emmett was exceedingly proud of this invention, since it seemed to "go
down" with Weary better than most of the lies they told.

It was the coming of the Fourth and the celebration of that day which
provoked further effort to tease Weary.

"Who are _you_ going to take, Weary?" Cal Emmett lowered his left
eyelid very gently, for the benefit of the others, and drew a match
sharply along the wall just over his head.

"Myself," answered Weary sweetly, though it was becoming a sore subject.

"You're sure going in bum company, then," retorted Cal.

"Who's going to pilot the schoolma'am?" blurted Happy Jack, who was
never consciously ambiguous.

"You can search me," said Weary, in a you-make-me-tired tone. "She
sure isn't going with Yours Truly."

"Ain't she asked yuh yet?" fleered Cal. "That's funny. She told me
the other day she was going to take advantage of woman's privilege,
this year, and choose her own escort for the dance. Then she asked me
if I knew whether you were spoke for, and when I told her yuh wasn't,
she wanted to know if I'd bring a note over. But I was in a dickens of
a hurry, and couldn't wait for it; anyhow, I was headed the other way."

"Not toward Len Adams, were you?" asked Weary sympathetically.

"Aw, she'll give you an invite, all right," Happy Jack declared.
"Little Willie ain't going to be forgot, yuh can gamble on that. He's
too much like Darling Brother--"

At this point, Happy Jack ducked precipitately and a flapping,
four-buckled overshoe, a relic of the winter gone, hurtled past his
head and landed with considerable force upon the unsuspecting stomach
of Cal, stretched luxuriously upon his bunk. Cal doubled like a
threatened caterpillar and groaned, and Weary, feeling that justice had
not been defeated even though he had aimed at another culprit, grinned
complacently.

"What horse are you going to take?" asked Chip, to turn the subject.

"Glory. I'm thinking of putting him up against Bert Rogers' Flopper.
Bert's getting altogether too nifty over that cayuse of his. He needs
to be walked away from, once; Glory's the little horse that can learn