"Sure not," said Baldy, sympathetic, still thirsty, and genuinely
solicitous concerning the relative value of the cards. "By rights
you're a king. If I was you, I'd call for a new deal. The cards have
been stacked on you--I'll tell you what you are, Webb Yeager."

"What?" asked Webb, with a hopeful look in his pale-blue eyes.

"You're a prince-consort."

"Go easy," said Webb. "I never blackguarded you none."

"It's a title," explained Baldy, "up among the picture-cards; but it
don't take no tricks. I'll tell you, Webb. It's a brand they're got
for certain animals in Europe. Say that you or me or one of them Dutch
dukes marries in a royal family. Well, by and by our wife gets to be
queen. Are we king? Not in a million years. At the coronation
ceremonies we march between little casino and the Ninth Grand
Custodian of the Royal Hall Bedchamber. The only use we are is to
appear in photographs, and accept the responsibility for the heir-
apparent. That ain't any square deal. Yes, sir, Webb, you're a prince-
consort; and if I was you, I'd start a interregnum or a habeus corpus
or somethin'; and I'd be king if I had to turn from the bottom of the
deck."

Baldy emptied his glass to the ratification of his Warwick pose.

"Baldy," said Webb, solemnly, "me and you punched cows in the same
outfit for years. We been runnin' on the same range, and ridin' the
same trails since we was boys. I wouldn't talk about my family affairs
to nobody but you. You was line-rider on the Nopalito Ranch when I