When he'd had his third drink, and was beginning to feel better, he said he couldn't thank everybody enough for the way they'd behaved; and that his aunt had gone to bed tired out; and he'd been talking with her steady for two hours getting things settled; and she'd ended by agreeing she'd start back East with him the next night--he having made out he'd smash in his business if he waited a minute longer--and they was going by the Denver train. And he'd got her fixed he said, so she'd keep quiet through the morning--as she was going right at mending his stockings and things the first thing when she got up; and after that she was full of getting to work with canned peaches and making him a pie. "But what's going to happen in the afternoon," he said, "the Lord only knows! That blasted fool of a Ben Hill"--Hart spoke just that bitter way about it--"hasn't had no more sense 'n to go and tell her this town's full of kindergartens, and she's so worked up there's no holding her, as kindergartens happens to be the fullest hand she holds. I've allowed we have one--things being as they was, I had to--but I've told her it's out of order, and the children laid up with whooping-cough, and the teacher sick a-bed, and the outfit damaged by a fire we had, and--and the Lord knows what I haven't told her about the damn thing." (Hart was that nervous he couldn't help speaking that way.) "But all I've said hasn't made no difference. She's just dead set on getting to what's left of that kindergarten, and I can't budge her. See it she will, she says; and I guess the upshot of Hill's chuckle-headed talk'll be to waste all the trouble we've took by landing us in the biggest give-away that ever was!" And Hart called for another drink, and had to set down to take it--looking pale. All the boys felt terrible bad about the hole Hart was in; and they felt worse because none of 'em hadn't no notion what a kindergarten did--when it did anything--and that made 'em more ashamed Palomitas hadn't one to show. Only Becker--Becker'd happened to come over from Santa Cruz that night--sized it up right; and Becker shook his head sort of dismal and said there wasn't no use even thinking about it--and that looked like a settler, because Becker seemed to know. Nobody didn't say nothing for a minute or two; and then Ike Williams spoke up--he was the boss carpenter on the freight-house job, Ike was--and said if what was wanted could be made out of boards, and made in a hurry, he'd lay off the freight-house gang the next morning and engage to have one ready by noon. Santa Fé Charley'd been sitting still thinking, not saying a word. He let out a big cuss--and Charley wasn't given to cussing--when Ike made his offer; and then he banged his hand down on the table so hard he set the chips to flying, and he said: "Mr. Hart, don't you worry--we're going to put this job through!"