"That was a mighty nice talk yuh gave the fireman," remarked the
woman, during an interval in their labors. "I feel a lot better now.
Mebbe the fireman will get married now and brace up. Was he really
doing all those things yuh said?"

"Some feller was," answered Cassidy. "I heard about it."

"And now," announced the widow, "we'll just make him a good head-board
and stop there. Edgard _might_ have been a good husband, but he didn't
try overhard. Have yuh got anything written?"

"I ain't got anything but this yere old location notice," ventured
Cassidy doubtfully. "I guess, though, I'll just stake out Edgard, the
same as a claim. Then it'll be regular, and there won't nobody touch
him. Of course we won't put up any side centers or corner posts; jest
a sort of discovery monument. He'll be safe for three months, all
right."

And so Cassidy, with the nub of a pencil, and using his knee as a
writing-desk, duly, and in the manner set forth in the laws of the
United States, discovered and located Edgard Gentry, age thirty-five,
died of consumption, extending fifteen hundred feet in a northerly and
southerly direction and three hundred feet on either side, together
with all his dips, spurs, and angles.

"Yuh write a nice hand," murmured the widow pensively, sitting down in
the sand beside him and unwittingly breathing on his neck as he wrote.
"Did yuh go tuh school, Mister Cassidy?"