“I looked up them lodge raiment, and they’re dazzlers.” “I still got that hard hat that I wore to a Dimmicrat rally down to Silver Bend ten year ago,” orates Scenery. “She looks a heap dignified, and it’s too small for any of you fellers. I got a sword, too—in a holster.” “To lead a pe-rade a man ought to look dignified—not his clothes,” proclaims Hank. “This here glory thing is going to cause hard feelings,” says I. “I moves that we does like this: we’ll all be here before the pe-rade is ready to start, and we’ll let some uninterested party pick out the suitable person for to lead it. Dress for the part, and if yuh don’t get picked, be a good sport and pe-rade anyway.” “That’ll keep the mortality down to a certain extent,” agrees Hank, and the other two nods. “Now,” says Hank, “how about this person to be Miss Columbus?” “I got her picked,” states Scenery. “I nominates Miss Eulalie McFee.” “Sheriff’s daughter, eh?” laughs Hank. “She’s so danged thin that if she stood edge-ways yuh couldn’t see her, Scenery. I nominates Miss Maggie Smith, niece of ‘Doughgod’ Smith. Who seconds the motion?” “Miss Columbus ought to be a danged sight better-looking than Maggie Smith,” states the old man. “Who ever heard of Miss Columbus with crossed eyes and freckles? I marks X at the top of my ticket for Miss Clarice Chaffin, daughter of Dug. Do I hear an agreeable voice?” “Haw! Haw!” roars Hank. “Clarice Chaffin! This contest ain’t for no animated flag-pole, Whittaker. How’s your sentiments, Hen?” “I leans toward Mrs. Genevieve Saunders, widder of the late ‘Slim’ Saunders. She’d fill the part.” “It would be danged small if she didn’t,” Scenery. “She weighs at least two hundred and——” “Scenery,” says I, “some day I’m going to hang a pebble on your neck, throw yuh into a tin cup of water and drown yuh.” “Let’s vote on it,” suggests Hank. “It don’t require no vote,” replies Whittaker. “If Hen wants to drown Scenery I’m——” “I mean vote on the lady!” snaps Hank. We did. We each cast a vote for our choice, and it starts a argument that’s a humdinger, and before we leaves the council-chamber we’re mentally wallering in each other’s gore. Paradise is busy fixing up floats and decorations, and we’re asked a lot of questions that we don’t dare to answer. “Who is going to lead the pe-rade?” whispers Doughgod to me, and I whispers back— “I am.” He toilers me for a distance, and whispers once more— “Hen, who is going to be Miss Columbus?” I answers— “The widder Saunders.” “Hank told me that my niece, Maggie was going to be her.” “Hank’s a liar,” says I, and Doughgod nods, and walks away. I’m over at the rack, cinching up my saddle, when here comes Dug Chaffin. “Henry, I’m looking for information that I can’t seem to get from any of your cohorts. Who is due to be Miss Columbus tomorrow?” “The widder Saunders. That’s settled, Dug.”