Down in the bunk house the boys were hurrying into their "war togs"--
which is, being interpreted, their best clothes. There was a nervous
scramble over the cracked piece of a bar mirror--which had a history--
and cries of "Get out!" "Let me there a minute, can't yuh?" and "Get
up off my coat!" were painfully frequent.

Happy Jack struggled blindly with a refractory red tie, which his face
rivaled in hue and sheen--for he had been generous of soap.

Weary had possessed himself of the glass and was shaving as leisurely as
though four restive cow-punchers were not waiting anxiously their turn.

"For the Lord's sake, Weary!" spluttered Jack Bates. "Your whiskers
grow faster'n you can shave 'em off, at that gait. Get a move on,
can't yuh?"

Weary turned his belathered face sweetly upon Jack. "Getting in a hurry,
Jacky? YOUR girl won't be there, and nobody else's girl is going to have
time to see whether you shaved to-day or last Christmas. You don't want
to worry so much about your looks, none of you. I hate to say it, but
you act vain, all of you kids. Honest, I'm ashamed. Look at that gaudy
countenance Happy's got on--and his necktie's most as bad." He stropped
his razor with exasperating nicety, stopping now and then to test its
edge upon a hair from his own brown head.

Happy Jack, grown desperate over his tie and purple over Weary's remarks,
craned his neck over the shoulder of that gentleman and leered into the
mirror. When Happy liked, he could contort his naturally plain features
into a diabolical grin which sent prickly waves creeping along the spine
of the beholder.