“They're just about the limit, and that's no dream,” sympathized Kent, “but they're clean, and they don't look like they'd been slept in for a month. You've got to put 'em on--by George, I sized up the layout in both those imitation stores, and I drew the highest in the deck. And for the Lord's sake, get a move on. Here, I'll button it for you.” Behind Fleetwood's back, when collar and tie were in place, Kent grinned and lowered an eyelid at Jim, who put his head in from the saloon to see how far the sobering had progressed. “You look fine!” he encouraged heartily. “That green-and-blue tie's just what you need to set you off. And the collar sure is shiny and nice--your girl will be plumb dazzled. She won't see anything wrong--believe _me_. Now, run along and get married. Here, you better sneak out the back way; if she happened to be looking out, she'd likely wonder what you were doing, coming out of a saloon. Duck out past the coal shed and cut into the street by Brinberg's. Tell her you're sick--got a sick headache. Your looks'll swear it's the truth. Hike!” He opened the door and pushed Fleetwood out, watched him out of sight around the corner of Brinberg's store, and turned back into the close-smelling little room. “Do you know,” he remarked to Jim, “I never thought of it before, but I've been playing a low-down trick on that poor girl. I kinda wish now I'd put her next, and given her a chance to draw outa the game if she wanted to. It's stacking the deck on her, if you ask _me_!” He pushed his hat back upon his head, gave his shoulders a twist of dissatisfaction, and told Jim to dig up some Eastern beer; drank it meditatively, and set down the glass with some force. “Yes, sir,” he said disgustedly, “darn my fool soul, I stacked the deck on that girl--and she looked to be real nice. Kinda innocent and trusting, like she hasn't found out yet how rotten mean men critters can be.” He took the bottle and poured himself another glass. “She's sure due to wise up a lot,” he added grimly. “You bet your sweet life!” Jim agreed, and then he reconsidered. “Still, I dunno; Man ain't so worse. He ain't what you can call a real booze fighter. This here's what I'd call an accidental jag; got it in the exuberance of the joyful moment when he knew his girl was coming. He'll likely straighten up and be all right. He--” Jim broke off there and looked to see who had opened the door. “Hello, Polly,” he greeted carelessly.