When the formalities about the license were completed the minister had Jack and Marjorie stand together in the centre of the shack, and spoke the few simple words that made them man and wife under the law. We paid them the usual hackneyed compliments, and then stood around looking rather sheepish and wondering what to do next, until Reddy produced a box of chocolates and presented it to the bride. It was a simple thing, but in some way it loosed our tongues, and presently we were all laughing and wishing each other Merry Christmas. By this time the sun had set on the short December day, and night was drawing her grey curtains across the plains. I paid for the license on Jack's behalf and gave the change to the minister, and we were about to thank Spoof and say good-bye to the little company when they announced in concert that they were coming over to Fourteen. In vain we protested that the roads were bad, that the night was settling down, that the sky looked like a storm. All these perfectly good reasons why they should stay at home were converted into arguments why they should come. Spoof, as host, yoked up the oxen and insisted that he would drive the bridal party; our jumper would carry five as well as four. "It was built for two," he argued, "so one more will make no difference." Finding that there was nothing else for it we accepted the inevitable and crowded in. Spoof provided rice, with which we all were liberally pelted; Jake fired two shots from a gun, and with much shouting at Buck and Bright and the world in general away we went at a pace of almost three miles an hour, dragging behind a chain of Spoof's discarded boots and overshoes. When we were well under way our attention was suddenly arrested by a commotion in the rear. It was Jake with the "flying ants", and with Bella Donna and the minister and Reddy in his cutter. He was standing up, waving the loose ends of the reins about his head, and imprecating his horses into a gallop. In a moment he was upon us. "Out o' the way, you old married people," he shouted. "I don' blame you fer goin' slow, but don' hold up the percession." But Spoof had no intention that the bride and groom should surrender the place of honor. With many strange adjectives he goaded the oxen, and presently noted a slight acceleration in their movements. "We're making nearly four knots an hour," he shouted. "That's nothing," the minister shouted back. "I made a knot in less than ten minutes."