"His complexion consisted of freckles; when you spoke to him sudden
he blushed, and then he looked for all the world like a stormy
sunset. His eyes were white, and so was his hair, and so was poor
old Aleck--as white a kid as they make 'em, and, beyond guessing,
the skeeriest--not relatin' to things, but to people. How he come
to drift out into our country was a story all by itself. He was
disappointed in love--he _had_ to be. One look at him and you'd
know why. So he sailed out to the wild West, where he was about as
useful as a trimmed nighty. We always stood between Aleck and the
old man, until the boy got so he'd make straight once out of a
possible five.

[Illustration: He was disappointed in love--he _had_ to be.]

"First off, he was still; then, findin' himself in a confidential
crowd, and bustin' to let us know, his trouble, he told us all
about it. He'd never spoke to the girl, it seems, more'n to say,
'How-d'ye-do, ma'am,' and blush, and sit on his hat, and make
curious moves with them hands and feet; but there come another
feller along, and Alexander quit.

"'You got away?' says Scraggs. 'Permit me to congratulate you,
sir!' And he took hold of as much of Aleck's right wing as he
could gather, and shook it hard. 'Alas!' says he, 'how different
is the tale I have to tell.'

"'But I didn't want to come away!' stutters Alexander.

"'Didn't want to?' cries Scraggs, letting the pipe fall out of his
mouth. Then he turns to me and taps his brow with his finger,