There, that was her, laughing like she always laughed--it reminded him of pines nodding in a canyon and looking wise and whispering things they'd seen and heard before you were born, and of water falling over rocks, somehow. Queer, maybe--but it did. He wondered if Dick Brown had been trying to say something funny. He didn't see, for the life of him, how the Little Doctor could laugh at that little imitation man. Girls are--well, they're easy pleased, most of them. Down in the bunk house the boys were hurrying into their “war togs”--which is, being interpreted, their best clothes. There was a nervous scramble over the cracked piece of a bar mirror--which had a history--and cries of “Get out!” “Let me there a minute, can't yuh?” and “Get up off my coat!” were painfully frequent. Happy Jack struggled blindly with a refractory red tie, which his face rivaled in hue and sheen--for he had been generous of soap. Weary had possessed himself of the glass and was shaving as leisurely as though four restive cow-punchers were not waiting anxiously their turn. “For the Lord's sake, Weary!” spluttered Jack Bates. “Your whiskers grow faster'n you can shave 'em off, at that gait. Get a move on, can't yuh?” Weary turned his belathered face sweetly upon Jack. “Getting in a hurry, Jacky? YOUR girl won't be there, and nobody else's girl is going to have time to see whether you shaved to-day or last Christmas. You don't want to worry so much about your looks, none of you. I hate to say it, but you act vain, all of you kids. Honest, I'm ashamed. Look at that gaudy countenance Happy's got on--and his necktie's most as bad.” He stropped his razor with exasperating nicety, stopping now and then to test its edge upon a hair from his own brown head. Happy Jack, grown desperate over his tie and purple over Weary's remarks, craned his neck over the shoulder of that gentleman and leered into the mirror. When Happy liked, he could contort his naturally plain features into a diabolical grin which sent prickly waves creeping along the spine of the beholder. Weary looked, stared, half rose from his chair. “Holy smithereens! Quit it, Happy! You look like the devil by lightning.” Happy, watching, seized the hand that held the razor; Cal, like a cat, pounced upon the mirror, and Jack Bates deftly wrenched the razor from Weary's fingers. “Whoopee, boys! Some of you tie Weary down and set on him while I shave,” cried Cal, jubilant over the mutiny. “We'll make short work of this toilet business.” Whereupon Weary was borne to the floor, bound hand and foot with silk handkerchiefs, carried bodily and laid upon his bed. “Oh, the things I won't do to you for this!” he asserted, darkly. “There won't nary a son-of-a-gun uh yuh get a dance from my little schoolma'am--you'll see!” He grinned prophetically, closed his eyes and murmured: “Call me early, mother dear,” and straightway fell away into slumber and peaceful snoring, while the lather dried upon his face.