turned on Mary. "Now don't go up in the air, old girl. I'm onto
my job. My grandfather was a state senator, and he could spiel
graceful an' pleasin' till the cows come home. So can I.--Bill,
when I look at you, I'm sorry. I repeat, I'm sorry." He glared
challengingly at Mary. "For myself when I look at you an' know
all the happiness you got a hammerlock on. Take it from me,
you're a wise guy, bless the women. You've started well. Keep it
up. Marry 'em all, bless 'em. Bill, here's to you. You're a
Mohegan with a scalplock. An' you got a squaw that is some squaw,
take it from me. Minnehaha, here's to you--to the two of you--an'
to the papooses, too, gosh-dang them!"

He drained the glass suddenly and collapsed in his chair,
blinking his eyes across at the wedded couple while tears
trickled unheeded down his cheeks. Mary's hand went out
soothingly to his, completing his break-down.

"By God, I got a right to cry," he sobbed. "I'm losin' my best
friend, ain't I? It'll never be the same again never. When I
think of the fun, an' scrapes, an' good times Bill an' me has had
together, I could darn near hate you, Saxon, sittin' there with
your hand in his."

"Cheer up, Bert," she laughed gently. "Look at whose hand you are
holding."

"Aw, it's only one of his cryin' jags," Mary said, with a
harshness that her free hand belied as it caressed his hair with
soothing strokes. "Buck up, Bert. Everything's all right. And now
it's up to Bill to say something after your dandy spiel."