"Can she brew, can she bake, Billy boy, Billy boy? Can she brew, can she bake, charming Billy?" Another long pull at the cigarette, and then the triumphant declaration: "She can brew n' she can bake, She can sew n' she can make-- She's a young thing, and cannot leave her mother." "She ain't s' young!" bawled the sheepherder, who was taking it all very seriously. "Say them numbers over again, onc't. Twelve-'n'-fourteen--" "Aw, go off and lay down!" advised Charming Billy, in a tone of deep disgust. He was about to pursue still farther his inquiry into the housewifely qualifications of the mysterious "young thing," and he hated interruptions. "Can she make a punkin pie, Billy boy, Billy boy? Can she make a punkin pie, charming Billy?" The door opened timidly and closed again, but he did not see who entered. He was not looking; he was holding the empty, foam-flecked glass behind him imperatively, and he was watching over his shoulder to see that the bartender did not skimp the filling and make it two-thirds foam. The bartender was punctiliously lavish, so that a crest of foam threatened to deluge the hand of Charming Billy and quite occupied him for the moment. When he squared himself again and buzzed his spurs against the bar, his mind was wholly given to the proper execution of the musical gem. "She can make a punkin pie, Quick's a cat can wink her eye--" Something was going on, over in the dimly lighted corner near the door. Half a dozen men had grouped themselves there with their backs to Billy and they were talking and laughing; but the speech of them was an unintelligible clamor and their laughter a commingling roar. Billy gravely inspected his cigarette, which had gone cold, set down the glass and sought diligently for a match. "Aw, come on an' have one on me!" bawled a voice peremptorily. "Yuh can't raise no wild cattle around _this_ joint, lessen yuh wet up good with whisky. Why, a feller as long as you be needs a good jolt for every foot of yuh--and that's about fifteen when you're lengthened out good. Come on--don't be a damn' chubber! Yuh got to sample m' hospitality. Hey, Tom! set out about a quart uh your _mildest_ for Daffy-down-Dilly. He's dry, clean down to his hand-made socks." Charming Billy, having found a match, held it unlighted in his fingers and watched the commotion from his perch on the bar. In the very midst of the clamor towered the melancholy Alexander P. Dill, and he was endeavoring to explain, in his quiet, grammatical fashion. A lull that must have been an accident carried the words clearly across to Charming Billy. "Thank you, gentlemen. I really don't care for anything in the way of refreshment. I merely came in to find a friend who has promised to spend the night with me. It is getting along toward bedtime. Have your fun, gentlemen, if you must--but I am really too tired to join you."