“Those women are all so clever, Jim, but I think we’re going to stick to my idea and celebrate this town!”

Old Pete grunted as he beat out the fire with a poker—what was left of it.

“Thanks, Pete. I know you’ll be sure that’s safe before you lock up,” Jem said in his authoritative voice.

But Pete had not had his innings, and he had had a couple of beers, and even one beer acted fast. For a drinking man, as he surely was, Pete could not hold his liquor.

“Let me tell you,” he said, holding up the poker like a schoolmarm’s ruler, “trying to work with women is like putting an ox and a horse in tandem. Those women will run away with you, Jem, before you know it.”

“I’m not so sure,” Jim Heald said, spreading his arms behind him comfortably along the bench back and stretching his legs out. “Jem has a pretty strong notion of how things will be.”

“Giddyap!” Pete yelled in a hoarse whisper about an octave higher than his normal tone. “Giddyap!” and then he sat down too, he was laughing so hard.

“You come home with me, Jim, and we’ll talk things over,” Jem said, ignoring Pete.

“Wish I could, but Sarie’s waiting on me, and I guess I’d better get home,” and he slipped away.

Pete caught the guilty look on Jim’s face and commented, “Never saw a town or heard of one where people had so little time for getting together. At the very hint of a meeting of any kind they start running for cover like rabbits,” and Old Pete gave Jem a gentle slap on the back. “You did well, Jem, to get them to come—very well.”

“Thanks,” Jem said with a short laugh. “Glad someone appreciates the accomplishment.”

“You haven’t got a drink on you, Jem, have you? I’m dry as a dry well.” Old Pete never asked for a drink when he was sober.

“Now, Pete, you’ve had enough. You take care of things here and go home and have something to eat. So long, man,” and Jem went out into the dusk like some great lonely animal.

Pete sat down, rubbed his hand across his eyes and had a little talk with himself. “Miss Morse,” he muttered, “she’d ought to be here—she’d know—standing up there, I can see her now, with her red hair, tall as a beanpole, telling me I had a beautiful voice and to let it out. He staggered to his feet and shouted hoarsely:

‘Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate:

To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds’ …

Oh dear, it’s gone, Miss Morse … te turn te turn te tum … Forgotten.”

CHRISTINA’S JOURNAL—October 16