Shooting-star looks at us over his glasses. “Boys,” he says, “blamed if I don’t believe that’s about so! An old bach like me sure does live a kinda barren existence; and there ain’t enough joy in the life I’m leading to talk about. I believe the men that’s broke to work double has got all the best uh the deal. Anyway,” he says, pointed, “they can git something to eat besides sour-dough bread and fried bacon and stewed apricots. They git cake once in awhile; cake that’s fit to eat.” Ellis kinda brustled up at that. He’d been doing the cooking that week, and he’d tackled a cake—a fruit-cake, with prunes in it for the fruit—and he’d been short uh lard, and had used bacon grease for short’ning, which give it a taste that didn’t harmonize none too well with the prunes. It was sure hot stuff; we fed some of it to an old pinto of Shooting-star’s that was a biscuit fiend; and the pinto turned his lip up till he couldn’t hardly see over it, and went around all day looking at us reproachful; it was giving him the double-cross, all right, to hand out such a mess for him to swallow. So Ellis took Shooting-star’s remark personal. “Why don’t yuh get married, then?” he says. “Why don’t yuh cast your loop over that widow in Bent Willow? The chances is she savvies building a cake out uh nothing but bad flour and hope.” That was a come-back at Shooting-star, who wasn’t a bit too liberal in buying stuff to cook with. “I wouldn’t take er as a gift,” says Shooting-star. And he goes back to his magazine. We played for awhile, and kinda forgot the subject, when the Old Man breaks out in a new spot. “Boys,” he says, “listen to this once: “A bright, loving, sensible young lady, with some means, would like to correspond with affectionate, honorable gentleman; one with some country property preferred. Must be sober, honest, and willing to make a good and loving husband. No trifler need answer this, or widower. Object, matrimony. “L. A.” He looked at us expectant, and waited for somebody to say something. “Three,” said Ellis, looking at me. “Pitch it,” said I; and he played the deuce uh spades. Shooting-star grunted. “Anyway, I ain’t no trifler, and I ain’t a widower,” he said, like we’d been arguing the point with him, and had raised doubts of his being able to qualify. “Which it’s a cinch you’ll wish yuh was,” remarked Ellis, without looking up. “And I’m there with the goods when it comes to country property,” said Shooting-star, looking at us both kinda anxious. I seen him out uh the tail uh my eye. “And you’re shore affectionate and honorable,” put in Ellis, sarcastic. Ellis hadn’t forgot the slur on his cake. “And you’re some sober—by spells.” Shooting-star rose up and looked fighty. “There’s times, young feller, when punching would do yuh good,” he snarls, malignant.