"You see," said Dorothy, turning to her father, "I know something about politics. I read the local papers. Mr. Shoop's name is in every one of them. I read that article about the Sterling strike. I have been wondering--" Shoop immediately called attention to Bondsman, who was gently tugging at the supervisor's pants leg. "Now, look at that! Do you know what he's tellin' me? He's tellin' me I got a piano in that there cabin and we ain't had a duet for quite a spell. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous." Bondsman slipped from beneath Dorothy's hand as she stooped to pat him. He trotted to Shoop's cabin, and stood looking up at the door. "Would you be playin' 'Annie Laurie' for us?" queried Shoop. Dorothy played for them, unaccompanied by Bondsman. Shoop shook his head. Either the tune had lost its charm for the Airedale or else Dorothy's interpretation differed from Bud's own. "Thanks, missy," said Shoop when she had finished playing. "Guess I'll be movin' along." "Oh, no! You'll stay to-night. I'll play for you. Make him stay, father." "I wish you would, Shoop. I'd like to talk with you about the election." "Well, now, that's right neighborly of you folks. I was aimin' to ride back this evening. But I reckon we'll stay. Bondsman and me ain't so spry as we was." After supper Dorothy played for them again, with no light except the dancing red shadows from the pine logs that flamed in the fireplace. Shoop thanked her. "I'll be livin' in town,"--and he sighed heavily,--"where my kind of piano-playin' would bring the law on me, most-like. Now, that ole piano is hacked up some outside, but she's got all her innards yet and her heart's right. If you would be takin' it as a kind of birthday present, it's yours." "You don't mean _me_?" "I sure do." "But I couldn't accept such a big present. And then, when we go away this winter--" "Listen to your Uncle Bud, missy. A little lady give me a watch onct. 'T wa'n't a big watch, but it was a big thing. 'Cause why? 'Cause that little lady was the first lady to give me a present in my life. I was raised up by men-folks. My mammy she wa'n't there long after I come. Reckon that's why I never was much of a hand with wimmin-folks. I wa'n't used to 'em. And I don't care how old and ornery a man is; the first time he gets a present from a gal, it kind of hits him where he breathes. And if it don't make him feel warm inside and mighty proud of bein' who he is, why, it's because he's so dog-gone old he can't think. I ain't tellin' no secret when I say that the little lady put her name in that watch alongside of mine. And her name bein' there is what makes that present a big thing--bigger than any piano that was ever built.