We agreed on Curly's worldliness cheerfully; indeed, agreed cheerfully
that all the world was a good place and all its inhabitants were
everything that could be asked. Life was young and fresh and strong.
The spell of Heart's Desire was upon us all that Christmas Day.

"Now," said Curly, dropping easily into the somewhat vague position of
host, when McKinney had finally placed his platter of screeching hot
steaks upon the table. "Now, then, grub pi-i-i-i-le!" He sang the
summons loud and clear, as it has sounded on many a frosty morning or
sultry noon in many a corner of the range. "Set up, fellers," said
Curly. "It's bridles off now, and cinches down, and the trusties next
to the mirror." (By this speech Curly probably meant that the time was
one of ease and safety, wherein one might place his six-shooter back of
the bar, in sign that he was in search of no man, and that none was in
search of him. It was not good form to eat in a private family in
Heart's Desire with one's gun at one's belt.)

We sat down and McKinney uncovered the cake which had been made by the
wife of the man from Leavenworth. It appeared somewhat imposing.
Curly wanted to cut into it at the first course, but Dan Anderson
rebelled and coaxed him off upon the subject of oysters. There was
abundance for all. The cake itself would have weighed perhaps five or
six pounds. There was a part of a can of oysters for each man, any
quantity of wholesome steaks and coffee, with condensed milk if one
cared for it, and at least enough champagne for any one who cared for
precisely that sort of champagne.

It was nightfall before we were willing to leave the little pine table.
Meantime we had talked of many things; of the new strike on the
Homestake, of the vein of coal lately found in the Patos, of Apache