"Nix; but you can wear it twenty minutes if you ’ll get my grub quick," he replied. "Got to meet Lucas at half-past five." He cautiously dropped the match he had thoughtlessly produced. The cook tried to look his belief and accepted the offer. Johnny’s remarkably clean face, plastered hair and general gala attire suggested that Lucas was a woman—which Lucas profanely would have denied. Also, Johnny had been seen washing Ginger, and when a puncher washes a cayuse it’s a sign of insanity. Besides, Ginger belonged to Red, who also had owned that lone dollar. Red’s clothes did not fit Johnny. "Goin’ to surprise Lucas?" inquired the cook. "What you mean?" Cookie glanced meaningly at the attire: "Er—you ain’t in th’ habit of puttin’ on war paint for to see Lucas, are you?" Johnny’s mental faculties produced: "Oh, we ’re goin’ to a dance." "Where ’bouts?" exploded the cook. "_Way_ up north!" One’s mind needs to be active as a flea to lie properly to a man like the cook. He had made a ghastly mistake. "By golly! I ’ll give th’ boys cold grub an’ go with you," and the cook began to save time. Johnny gulped and shook his head: "Got a invite?" Cookie caught the pan on his foot before it struck the floor and gasped: "Invite? Ain’t it free-fer-all?" "No; this is a high-toned thing-a-bob. Costs a dollar a head, too." "High-toned?" snorted the cook, derisively. "Don’t they know you? An’ I thought Red was broke. Show me that permit!" "Lucas ’s got it—that’s why I ’ve got to catch him." "Oh! An’ is _he_ goin’ all feathered up, too?" "Shore, he ’s got to." "Huh! He wouldn’t dress like that to see a _fight_. Has she got any sisters?" Cookie finished, hopefully. "Now what you talkin’ about?" "Why, Lucas," answered the cook, placidly. "Lemme tell you something. When you want to lose me have a invite to a water-drinkin’ contest. An’ before you go, be shore to rub Hoppy’s boots some more; that’s such a pasty shine it ’ll look like sand-paper before you get to th’—dance. You want to make it hard an’ slippery. An’ I ’ve read som’ers that only wimmin ought to smell like a drug-store. You better let her do th’ fumigatin’." Johnny surrendered and dolefully whiffed the crushed violets he had paid two bits a pint for at El Paso—it was not necessary to whiff them, but he did so. "You ought to hone yore razor, too," continued the cook, critically. "I told Buck it was dull, I ain’t goin’ to sharpen it for him. But, say, are you shore about th’ perfumery?" "Why, of course." "But how ’ll I git it off?" "Bury th’ clothes," suggested Cookie, grinning. "I like yore gall! Which clothes are best, Pete’s or Billy’s?" "Pete’s would fit you like th’ wide, wide world. You don’t want blankets on when you go courtin’. Try Billy’s. An’ I got a pair of socks, though one ’s green—but th’ boots ’ll hide it." "I did n’t put none on my socks, you chump!" "How’d _I_ know? But, say! Has she got any sisters?"