far back on his head as it could possibly be pushed with any hope of
its staying there at all. He had a glass in one hand, a cigarette in
the other, and he was raking his rowels rhythmically up and down the
erstwhile varnished bar in buzzing accompaniment, the while he chanted
with much enthusiasm:

"How old is she, Billy boy, Billy boy?
How old is she, charming Billy?
Twice six, twice seven,
Forty-nine and eleven--"

The bartender, wiping the bar after an unsteady sheepherder, was
careful to leave a generous margin around the person of Charming Billy
who was at that moment asserting with much emphasis:

"She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother."

"Twice-six's-twelve, 'n' twice-seven's-four-r-teen, 'n' twelve 'n'
fourteen's--er--twelve--'n'--fourteen--" The unsteady sheepherder was
laboring earnestly with the problem. "She ain't no spring chicken, she
ain't!" He laughed tipsily, and winked up at the singer, but Billy was
not observing him and his mathematical struggles. He refreshed himself
from the glass, leaving the contents perceptibly lower--it was a
large, thick glass with a handle, and it had flecks of foam down the
inside--took a pull at the cigarette and inquired plaintively:

"Can she brew, can she bake, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can she brew, can she bake, charming Billy?"

Another long pull at the cigarette, and then the triumphant