to help much with the ranch work, and she knew he could manage the
horses so much better than anyone else--and Cecil had been in a runaway
once, and so was dreadfully nervous behind a strange team--which last
declaration set Chip's lips a-curl.

The woman usually does have her own way in the end, and so Chip marched
to the gallows with his chin well up, smiling at his executioner.

The train was late. The Little Doctor waited in the hotel parlor, and
Chip waited in the hotel saloon, longing to turn a deluge of whisky down
his throat to deaden that unbearable, heavy ache in his heart--but instead
he played pool with Bert Rogers, who happened to be in town that day, and
took cigars after each game instead of whiskey, varying the monotony
occasionally by lemon soda, till he was fairly sick.

Then the station agent telephoned up that the train was coming, and Chip
threw down his billiard cue, swallowed another glass of lemon soda and
gagged over it, sent Bert Rogers to tell the Little Doctor the train
was coming, and went after the team.

He let the creams lope in the harness all the way to the depot, excusing
himself on the plea that the time was short; the fact was, Chip wanted
the agony over as soon as possible; nothing so wears a man's patients
as to have a disagreeable duty drag. At the depot he drove around to
the back where freight was unloaded, with the explanation that the
creams were afraid of the train--and the fact of that matter was, that
Chip was afraid Dr. Cecil might greet the Little Doctor with a kiss--
he'd be a fool if he didn't--and Chip did not want to witness the salute.

Sitting with his well foot in the brake, he pictured the scene on the