I worried a good deal that night. The more I turned over what Simpson 'd said, the more I wondered if I knowed all they was to his game. What was he drivin' at with that "celebrated" business? Then, too, it wouldn't do Mace no good t' be puffed up so much. She'd been 'lected the prettiest gal. Now she'd been tole she had a way-up voice. 'Fore long, she'd git the big haid. "Wal, I'll put a qui_e_tus on it," I says. And, next mornin', when I seen her, I opened up like this: "Honey, I reckon we've waited just about long enough. So we git married Sunday week." "That's too soon," she answers. "We got t' git paw on our side. And I ain't got no new clothes." "We'll splice first and ast him about it afterwards. And when you're Mrs. Alec, I'll git you all the clothes you want." (Here's where I clean fergot the _ad_vice she give me that time in the sheriff's case: "In love affairs," was what she said, "don't never try t' drive _no_body.") "But, Alec,----" she begun. "Sunday week, Mace," I says. "We'll talk about it t'-night." But that night Monkey Mike come nigh blowin' his lungs out; and I waited under the cottonwoods till I was asleep standin'--and no Macie. Wasn't it cal'lated t' make any man lose his temper? Wal, I lost mine. And when we went in town to a party, a night 'r two afterwards, the hull business come to a haid. I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. But _no_ feller wants t' see his gal dance with a kettle-faced greaser. I knowed she was goin' to fer the reason that I seen Mexic go over her way, showin' his teeth like a badger and lettin' his cigareet singe the hair on his dirty shaps--shaps, mind y', at a school-house dance! Then I seen her nod. Our polka come next. And when we was about half done, I says, "They's lemonade outside, honey. Let's git a swig." But outside I didn't talk no lemonade. "Did Mexic ast you to dance with him?" I begun. "Wal, he's one of our boys," she answers; "and I'm going to give him a schottische." "No, you _ain't,_" I come back. "I won't stand fer it." "Yas, I _am,_ Alec Lloyd,"--she spoke determined,--"and please don't try to boss me." I shut up and walked in again. Mexic was talkin' to the school-ma'am--aw, he's got _gall!_ I shassayed up and took him a little one side. "Mexic," I says, soft as hair on a cotton-tail, "it's gittin' on towards mornin' and, natu'lly, Macie Sewell ain't feelin' just rested; so I wouldn't insist on that schottische, if I was you." "Why?" he ast. "I tole you why," I says; "but I'll give you another reason: You' boots is too tight." We fussed a little then. Didn't amount to much, though, 'cause neither of us had a gun. (Y' see, us punchers don't pack guns no more 'less we're out ridin' herd and want t' pick off a coy_o_te; 'r 'less we've had a little trouble and 're lookin' fer some one.) But I managed to change that greaser's countenance consider'ble, and he bit a chunk outen my hand. Then the boys pulled us separate.