the old girl the worth of her money. It won't hurt _us_, letting her
talk wild and foolish at us once a week, maybe; and the poor old
thing'll just be tickled to death thinking what a lot uh good she's
doing. She won't stay long, and--well, I go in. If she'll feel better
and more good to the world improving me, she's got my permission. I
guess I can stand it a while."

The Happy Family looked at him queerly, for if there was a black sheep
in the flock, Irish was certainly the man; and to have Irish take the
stand he did was, to say the least, unexpected.

Cal Emmett blurted the real cause of their astonishment. "You'll have
to sign the pledge, first pass," he said. "That's going to be the ante
in _her_ game. How--"

"Well, I don't play nobody's hand, or stake anybody's chips, but my
own," Irish retorted, the blood showing under the tan on his cheeks.

"And we won't das't roll a cigarette, even, by golly!" reminded Slim.
For Miss Martin, whether intentionally or not, had made plain to them
the platform of the new society.

Irish got some deep creases between his eyebrows, and put back his
saddle. "You can do as yuh like," he said, coldly. "I'm going to stay
and go to meeting this afternoon, according to her invite. If it's
going to make that poor old freak feel any better thinking she's a
real missionary--" He turned and walked out of the stable without
finishing the sentence, and the Happy Family stood quite still and
watched him go.