"Little gal," I answers, "you' idear has been carried out faithful--and has gone fluey. Wal, let Cupid have a try. A-course, I was sit on pretty hard in that confab I had with him, but, all the same, I'll just happen 'round fer a little neighbourly call." His shack was over behind the town cooler, and stood by itself, kinda--a' ashes dump on one side of it and Sparks's hoss-corral on the other. It had one room, just high enough so's Bergin wouldn't crack his skull, and just wide enough so's when he laid down on his bunk he wouldn't kick out the side of the house. And they was a rusty stove with a dictionary toppin' it, and a saddle and a fryin'-pan on the bed, and a big sack of flour a-spillin' into a pair of his boots. I put the fryin'-pan on the floor, and sit down. "Wal, Sheriff," I begun (he had a skittle 'twixt his knees and was a-peelin' some spuds fer his dinner), "I ain't come t' sponge offen you. Me and Macie Sewell had our dinner down to Mrs. Bridger's t'-day." He let slip the potato he was peelin', and it rolled under the stove. "Yas?" he says; "that so?" "And _such_ a dinner as she give us!" I goes on. "Had a white oilcloth on the table,--white, with little blue vi'lets on it--and all her dishes is white and blue. She brung 'em from Buffalo. And we had fried chicken, and corn-dodgers, and prune somethin'-'r-other. Say! I--I s'pose _you_ ain't been down." "No,"--kinda wistful, and eyes on his peelin'--"no. How--how is she?" "Aw, _fine!_ The kid, he ast after you." "Did he?" He looked up, awful tickled. Then, "He's a nice, little kid," he adds thoughtful. "He _shore_ is." I riz. "Sorry," I says, "but I got to mosey now. Promised Mrs. Bridger I'd take her some groceries down." I started out, all business. But I stopped at the door. "Reckon I'll have to make two trips of it--if I cain't git someone t' help me." Say! it was plumb pitiful the way Bergin grabbed at the chanst. "Why, _I_ don't mind takin' a stroll," he answers, gittin' some red. So he put down the spuds and begun to curry that cowlick of hisn. First part of the way, he walked as spry as me. But, as we come closter to the widda's, he got to hangin' back. And when we reached a big pile of sand that was out in front of the house--he balked! "Guess I won't go in," he says. "O. K.," I answers. (No use to cross him, y' savvy, it'd only 'a' made him worse.) When I knocked, and the widda opened the door, she seen him. "Why, how d' you do!" she called out, lookin' mighty pleased. "Willie, dear, here's Mister Bergin." "How d' do," says the sheriff. Willie come nigh havin' a duck-fit, he was so happy. And in about two shakes of a lamb's tail, he was outen the house and a-climbin' the sheriff. Inside, I says to Mrs. Bridger, "Them chickens of yourn come, ma'am. And Hairoil Johnson'll drive 'em down in a' hour 'r so. The most of 'em looked fat and sassy, but one 'r two has got the pip." She didn't act like she'd heerd me. She was watchin' the sandpile.