Object, Matrimony Being a Further Chapter in the Annals of “The Hall of Mirth,” as Related by Bud Preston, Cowboy By B. M. Bower Author of “The Hall of Mirth,” “The Curious Mr. Canfield,” Etc. Women are all right—if yuh keep far enough away from them. It’s when yuh take down your rope and commence to widen your loop for one that trouble generally begins; or else when yuh get one, she runs on the rope and keeps yuh guessing other ways. The time I was working for old Shooting-star Wilson, I sure got an object-lesson that I won’t forget in a week or two. We was living happy and content, and meaning harm to nobody that winter. It was the winter after Shooting-star had got his wad—ten thousand dollars—from the old country, and had blowed it all in on a house to give a Washington’s Birthday ball in. He sure done himself proud; and spent every blame cent on the house and dance. So the next day he told Ellis and me to roll our beds and move into the mansion—which same domicile we called the Hall of Mirth, for various reasons that would uh stood in court, all right. It sure was a woozy proposition, for a real house. We got kinda accustomed to the red, white, and blue diamonds painted on the floors, and to the stars and stripes on the ceilings, and the red and green and blue chairs; but they sure got on our nerves at first. Folks used to come miles to see that house, which I will say was worth the trip, all right. But, seeing it was built for a dance, it never did get so it fit us, like some shacks do. We’d pull the biggest plush chairs in the house up to the big fireplace in the back parlor, and shut all the sliding-doors, and roll us a cigarette apiece, and stick out our legs as far as nature’d allow, toward the fire. And even then we felt like we’d been shut into a razzle-dazzle hall somewheres, and the crowd had all gone off and left us; they were unmerciful big rooms. Ellis and me used to make a sneak down to the old bunk-house once in awhile, and make a fire in the old stove, and snatch a little comfort. But it always hurt Shooting-star’s feelings; and besides, he was such an economical old cuss—in some ways. He said it ground him to have all that good money into a house, and then not get any good out of it. So we had to stick to the Hall of Mirth, whether we wanted to or not. But honest, them rooms was so big they echoed like thunder; and the walls and floors and ceilings was that gaudy we came near having to put on brown goggles. Even the books was all red and blue and green bindings. Shooting-star sure liked to have things match.