"You'self go to haitch!" the unrelenting complainant called after him.

The judge effected a rumbling withdrawal. The night was again calm. Then
I slept on the problem of the Arrowhead's two-gun bad man. It seemed now
pretty certain that the fatuous Boogles had grossly overpraised him. I
must question his being the real doughnuts of any sort--even the
mildest--much less the real Peruvian. But what was "'em" that in
degrading punishment and to the public shame of the Arrowhead he must
wear on the morrow? What, indeed, could "'em" be?

I woke, still pondering the mystery. Nor could I be enlightened during
my breakfast, for this was solitary, my hostess being long abroad to far
places of the Arrowhead, and the stolid mask of Lew Wee inviting no
questions.

Breakfast over, I stationed myself in the bracing sunlight that warmed
the east porch and aimlessly overhauled a book of flies. To three that
had proved most popular in the neighbouring stream I did small bits of
mending, ever with a questing eye on adjacent outbuildings, where Little
Sure Shot--_née_ Time--might be expected to show himself, wearing "'em."

A blank hour elapsed. I no longer affected occupation with the flies.
Jimmie Time was irritating me. Had he not been specifically warned to
"wear 'em" full shamefully in the public eye? Was not the public eye
present, avid? Boogles I saw intermittently among beanpoles in the
garden. He appeared to putter, to have no care or system in his labour.
And at moments I noticed he was dropping all pretense of this to stand
motionless, staring intently at the shut door of the stable.