Part 7 (2/2)
”Well, come along, then!” countered Bar Seven triumphantly, ”or the boys will be tellin' everybody!”
So the last unwilling victim was cajoled into going, and at a cheery summons from Dixie May they marched up the hill in a body. It was too early yet for the nester girls to appear, and while they were waiting for the dance to begin the twenty or more punchers wedged into the big front room and settled down to hear the phonograph. A cattle ranch without a phonograph nowadays is as rare as a cow outfit without a mouth-organ; but the Lees had a fine one, that would play for dances on a scratch, and a rack piled high with cla.s.sic records. Mrs. Lee sat beside it, and after welcoming the self-conscious cowboys she asked them what they would have.
”The barnyard one!” somebody called; and as the cow mooed, the pig squealed, and the hired girl called the chickens, the cowboys laughed and forgot their feet. Then Caruso sang a high one, caught his breath and expired, and the company s.h.i.+fted in their seats. That was not exactly their style.
”What's the matter with the dog fight?” cried a voice from the corner; and Mrs. Lee, who had dreams of elevating their taste, sat undecided, with the s.e.xtet from _Lucia_ in her hand.
”Perhaps you would like the _Anvil Chorus_,” she suggested by way of a concession.
”No, the dog fight!” clamored Hardy Atkins from the same corner. Then, quoting from the well-known favorite, he inquired in up-stage Irish: ”'Will some sport kindly let Mr. Ho-ogan, the time-keeper, hold his watch?'”
”'Faith,'” broke in Happy Jack, continuing the selection, ”'an' who will hold Ho-ogan, then--har, har, har, har, har!'”
So contagious was the spell of this laughter that there was nothing for it but to put on the record, which gave a dog fight in Harlem from the time the bets were made till the spotted dog licked and the place was raided by the police. Not very elevating, to be sure, but awfully popular, and calling for more of the same. Mrs. Lee sighed wearily and laid the s.e.xtet aside; then, with quick decision, she resigned her place to Dixie May and retired to a seat by the door--and, as luck would have it, she sat down next to Bowles.
”Won't you take my chair?” he said, rising with all the gallantry of his kind. ”I enjoyed that _Donna e Mobile_ of Caruso's so much!”
”Oh,” said Mrs. Lee, beaming with pleasure, ”you know it, then! And do you care for it, too?”
”Very much!” replied Bowles, falling back into the familiar formula of polite conversation; and by the time the phonograph had started up on ”Casey Jones” they were deep in a discussion of cla.s.sic music. As often happens in good society, they discovered a wonderful similarity in their likes and dislikes; and by the time the nester girls began to arrive and the dance started up on the gallery, Bowles was very popular in the big house--that is, as far as the hostess was concerned.
But the climax of the evening came at the close of the dance, just as Mr. Bowles was taking his leave.
”Well, good-night, Mrs. Lee,” he murmured as he stood in the half light of the porch. ”It was so kind of you to invite us up.”
He paused then with the rest of his politenesses unsaid, for Dixie Lee was coming down the hall.
”I can't say how much I have enjoyed talking with you, Mr. Bowles,”
returned the lady, offering him her hand. ”It takes me back to my girlhood days, when music was the breath of my life. Perhaps----Oh, Dixie, have you met Mr. Bowles?”
There was silence for a moment as their eyes met across the abyss, hers stern and forbidding, his smiling and conciliatory; and then Dixie bowed very stiffly.
”Why, not that I remember,” she replied, with a militant toss of the head.
”How do you do, Miss Lee,” observed Mr. Bowles, bowing formally as he received his conge. ”So glad to make your acquaintance!” And, murmuring other maddening phrases, he bowed himself out the door, leaving Dixie Lee to explain the feud in any way she chose.
CHAPTER VIII
A COWBOY'S LIFE
As the name of the Deity, to a cowboy, means little more than a word to swear by, so the holy Sabbath is forgotten as a day of rest. Not that the hard-riding puncher would not rest if he got the chance, but the traditions of the cow business make no allowances for G.o.dliness and ease. For forty dollars and found, the round-up hand is expected to work every day in the month, and take all his Sundays in a bunch when the boss writes out his time. From daylight to dark are his hours of labor, with horse wrangling and night-guard to boot; and yet there are men of elegance and leisure who try to crush in on the job.
Mr. Bowles rolled into bed a perfect gentleman, and something of a knight-errant as well; but when Gloomy Gus gave vent to his shrill morning call he turned in his blankets and muttered. As the dishpan yammered and clashed discordantly he shuddered like a craven; and when Gus finally kicked open the door he could have cursed like any cow-puncher. It was a dreary life he had elected to follow, a life of drudgery, hards.h.i.+p, and discomfort, and with no compensating element but the danger of getting killed. And all for the sake of a girl who never had met him before!
Bowles crawled out very slowly and stood s.h.i.+vering by the fire, marveling at the iron endurance of Gloomy Gus, and understanding his gloom. Never again, he resolved, as he drank a pint of hot coffee, never again would he address Mr. Mosby in aught but terms of respect. A man who could stand his life and still wear the mantle of self-restraint was worthy of a place among the stoics. And to get up alone--alone and of his own volition--at three-thirty and four of the morning! It was a task to give a Spartan pause and win an enduring fame among the G.o.ds. A large humility came over Bowles as he contemplated the rough men about him and observed how uncomplainingly they accepted their lot. And they had been at the work for months and years--it was the second day for him!
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