“YOU,” said Brooks promptly. “You're all standing here, croaking like crows, this fine morning. I passed YOUR farm, Johnson, not an hour ago; the wheat just climbing out of the black adobe mud as thick as rows of pins on paper--what have YOU to grumble at? I saw YOUR stock, Briggs, over on Two-Mile Bottom, waddling along, fat as the adobe they were sticking in, their coats shining like fresh paint--what's the matter with YOU? And,” turning to the proprietor, “there's YOUR shed, Saunders, over on the creek, just bursting with last year's grain that you know has gone up two hundred per cent. since you bought it at a bargain--what are YOU growling at? It's enough to provoke a fire or a famine to hear you groaning--and take care it don't, some day, as a lesson to you.” All this was so perfectly true of the prosperous burghers that they could not for a moment reply. But Briggs had recourse to what he believed to be a retaliatory taunt. “I heard you've been askin' Widow Wade to come to your dance,” he said, with a wink at the others. “Of course she said 'Yes.'” “Of course she did,” returned Brooks coolly. “I've just got her note.” “What?” ejaculated the three men together. “Mrs. Wade comin'?” “Certainly! Why shouldn't she? And it would do YOU good to come too, and shake the limp dampness out o' you,” returned Brooks, as he quietly remounted his horse and cantered away. “Darned ef I don't think he's got his eye on the widder,” said Johnson faintly. “Or the quarter section,” added Briggs gloomily.