get it, all right. Never saw a man from Leavenworth who wasn't a good
shot at a postoffice. But say, about that Littlest Girl--well, I
wonder!"

Curly was very restless until dinner-time, which, for one reason or
another, was postponed until about four of the afternoon. We met at
Dan Anderson's law office, which was also his residence, a room about a
dozen feet by twenty in size. The bunks were cleaned up, the blankets
put out of the way, and the centre of the room given over to a table,
small and home-made, but very full of good cheer for that time and
place. At the fireplace, McKinney, flushed and red, was broiling some
really good loin steaks. McKinney also allowed his imagination to soar
to the height of biscuits. Coffee was there assuredly, as one might
tell by the welcome odor now ascending. Upon the table there was
something masked under an ancient copy of a newspaper. Outside the
door of the adobe, in the deepest shade obtainable, sat two soap boxes
full of snow, or at least partly full, for Tom Osby had done his best.
In one of these boxes appeared the proof of Curly's truthfulness--three
cans of oysters, delicacies hitherto unheard of in that land! In the
other box was an object almost as unfamiliar as an oyster can,--an
oblong, smooth, and now partially frost-covered object with tinfoil
about its upper end. A certain tense excitement obtained.

"I wonder if she'll get _frappe_ enough," said Dan Anderson. He was a
Princeton man once upon a time.

"It don't make no difference about the frappy part," said Curly, "just
so she gets _cold_ enough. I reckon I savvy wine some. I never was
up the trail, not none! No, I reckon not! Huh?"