“Shucks, no! That’s all right, Doc. Only—yu’ see now. A man gets tired pretending—onced in a while.” [Illustration: Border] [Illustration: Border] Time had gone while they were in talk, and it was now half after one and Mr. McLean late for that long-plotted first square meal. So the friends shook hands, wishing each other Merry Christmas, and the cow-puncher hastened towards his chosen companions through the stirring cheerfulness of the season. His play-hour had made a dull beginning among the toys. He had come upon people engaged in a pleasant game, and waited, shy and well-disposed, for some bidding to join, but they had gone on playing with one another and left him out. And now he went along in a sort of hurry to escape from that loneliness where his human promptings had been lodged with him useless. Here was Cheyenne, full of holiday for sale, and he with his pockets full of money to buy; and when he thought of Shorty and Chalkeye and Dollar Bill, those dandies to hit town with, he stepped out with a brisk, false hope. It was with a mental hurrah and a foretaste of a good time coming that he put on his town clothes, after shaving and admiring himself, and sat down to the square meal. He ate away and drank with a robust imitation of enjoyment that took in even himself at first. But the sorrowful process of his spirit went on, for all he could do. As he groped for the contentment which he saw around him he began to receive the jokes with counterfeit mirth. Memories took the place of anticipation, and through their moody shiftings he began to feel a distaste for the company of his friends and a shrinking from their lively voices. He blamed them for this at once. He was surprised to think he had never recognized before how light a weight was Shorty, and here was Chalkeye, who knew better, talking religion after two glasses. Presently this attack of noticing his friends’ shortcomings mastered him, and his mind, according to its wont, changed at a stroke. “I’m celebrating no Christmas with this crowd,” said the inner man; and when they had next remembered Lin McLean in their hilarity he was gone. [Illustration: Border] Governor Barker, finishing his purchases at half-past three, went to meet a friend come from Evanston. Mr. McLean was at the railway station buying a ticket for Denver. “Denver!” exclaimed the amazed Governor. “That’s what I said,” stated Mr. McLean, doggedly. “Suffering Moses!” said his Excellency. “What are you going to do there?” “Get good and drunk.” “Can’t you find enough whiskey in Cheyenne?” “I’m drinking champagne this trip.” [Illustration: Border] The cow-puncher went out on the platform and got aboard, and the train moved off. Barker had walked out, too, in his surprise, and as he stared after the last car Mr. McLean waved his wide hat defiantly and went inside the door. [Illustration: Border]