“Well, let’s quit worryin’ about what ain’t happened,” said Miss Pearl abruptly. Men did not interest her. “Will he take you to any of the dances? That’s what I want to know. You’ve been put up and elected to our new and exclusive Club. No more Coliseum Saturday Nights for us--Race Track is a good name for it. We’ve taken a new little hall over Murphy’s store for Saturday nights till the Gardens open up, and we have real fun. No rowdyism. We leave that to the cut below. This Club is composed of real nice girls and young men of Butte who are workin’ hard at something high-toned and respectable, and frown hard on the fast lot.” “Sounds fine. Perhaps Greg’ll go, though he studies half the night. Do you meet at any other time? Is it one of them mind improvers, too?” “Nixie. We work all week and want fun when we get a few hours off. I improve my mind readin’ myself to sleep every night----” “What do you read?” interrupted Ida, eagerly. “Oh, the mags, of course, and a novel now and then. But you don’t need novels any more. The mags are wonders! They teach you all the life you don’t know--all the way from lords to burglars. Then there’s the movin’ pictures. Lord, but we have advantages our poor mothers never dreamed of!” “Greg wants me to study with a teacher.” Ida frowned reminiscently and fatidically. “He seems to think I didn’t get nothin’ at school.” “Well, what do you know about that?” gasped Miss Miller. Pearl removed her gum with a dry laugh. “If a man insinuated I wasn’t good enough for him--” she began; Ruby, whose quick mind was weather-wise, interrupted her. “Greg’s right. He’s got education himself and’s proved he don’t mean to be a rancher all his life. What’s more, I’ve heard men say that Gregory Compton is bound one way or another to be one of the big men of Montana. He’s got the brains, he’s got the jaw, and he can outwork any miner that ever struck, and no bad habits. Ide, you go ahead and polish up.” “Why should I? I never could see that those bonanzerines were so much better’n us, barring clothes.”