the philosophic calm in Ford's eyes.

"Unh-hunh." Sandy turned a leaf and at the same time flicked the ashes
from his cigarette with a mechanical finger movement. "You did." He
looked briefly up from the page. "That's why you licked the preacher,"
he assisted, and went back to his reading.

A subdued rumble of mid-autumn thunder jarred sullenly overhead. Ford
ceased caressing the purple half-moon which inclosed his left eye and
began moodily straightening his tie.

"Now what'n hell did I do that for?" he inquired complainingly.

"Search _me_," mumbled Sandy over his book. He read half a page
farther. "Do what for?" he asked, with belated attention.

Ford swore and went over and lifted the coffeepot from the stove, shook
it, looked in, and made a grimace of disgust as the steam smote him in
the face. "Paugh!" He set down the pot and turned upon Sandy.

"Get your nose out of that book a minute and talk!" he commanded in a
tone beseeching for all its surly growl. "You say I got married. I kinda
recollect something of the kind. What I want to know is who's the lady?
And what did I do it for?" He sat down, leaned his bruised head upon his
palms, and spat morosely into the stove-hearth. "Lordy me," he grumbled.
"I don't know any lady well enough to marry her--and I sure can't think
of any female lady that would marry me--not even by proxy!"

Sandy closed the book upon a forefinger and regarded Ford with that
blend of pity, amusement, and tolerance which is so absolutely