"But think of the lucky gal that don't marry such a yap," says Mace. "If she _was_ to, by some hook 'r crook, why, he'd throw it up to her fer the balance of his life that she'd ketched him like a rat in a trap." "_I_ never could git no such notion about you," I says; "aw, little gal, we'll be _so_ happy, you and me, won't we, honey,----" Wal, to _con_tinue with the Bridger story: You recollect what I said about that kid needin' a father? Wal, say! if he'd 'a' wanted one, he shore could 'a' picked from plenty of can_di_-dates. Why, 'fore long, ev'ry bach in town had his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger--that's _straight_. All other subjects of _po_lite conversation was fergot byside the subject of the widda. Sam Barnes was in love with her, and went 'round with that red face of hisn lookin' exac'ly like the full moon when you see it through a sandstorm. Chub Flannagan was in love with her, too, and 'd sit by the hour on Silverstein's front porch, his pop eyes shut up tight, a-rockin' hisself back'ards and for'ards, back'ards and for-'ards, and a-hummin'. Then, they was Dutchy's brother, August. Aw, he had it _bad_. And took t' music, just like Chub, yas, ma'am. Why, that feller spent _hours_ a-knockin' the wind outen a' pore accordion. And next come Frank Curry--haid over heels, too, _mean_ as he was, and to hear him talk you'd 'a' bet they wasn't _nothin'_ he wouldn't 'a' done fer Mrs. Bridger. But big talk's cheap, and he was small potatoes, _you_ bet, and few in the hill. Wal, one after the other, them four fellers blacked they boots, wet they hair down as nice and shiny as Hairoil's, and went to see the widda. She ast 'em in, a-course, and was neighbourly; fed 'em, too, if it was nigh meal-time, and acted, gen'ally speakin', as sweet as pie. But she treated 'em all _alike_. And they knowed it. _Con_sequently, in order so's all of 'em would git a' even chanst, and so's they wouldn't be no gun-play account of one man tryin' to cut another out by goin' to see her twicet to the other man's oncet, the aforesaid boys fixed up a calendar. Sam got Monday, Curry, Wednesday, Dutch August, Friday, and Chub, Sunday afternoons. That tickled Chub. He owns a liv'ry-stable, y' savvy, and ev'ry week he hitched up a rig and took the widda and her kid fer a buggy ride. And, Bergin? Wal, I'd took Macie's _ad_vice and stayed away from him. But--the stay-away plan hadn't worked worth a darn. The sheriff, he kept to his shack pretty steady. And one mornin', when I seen him at the post-office, he didn't have nothin' t' say to nobody, and looked sorta down on creation. That fin'lly riled Mace. "What's the _matter_ with him?" she says one day. "Why, havin' saw the widda, how can he _help_ fallin' in love with her! She's the _nicest_ little woman! And she's learned me a new crochet stitch."