"Some battle," she echoed softly. "Some battle--winner take all." Then she rose and went to him. "Perry, lad," she murmured, "I'm not sure but what there are _two_ champions, right here in this very car!" CHAPTER XIII BLUE FOR A BOY "But would she have been happy?" A critic whose sex is indicated by her usage of the pronoun _she_ instead of _they_ once raised the question. "Why not?" I asked unguardedly. Obviously such stupidity as my counter-question evinced was worthy of some pity. "Why, she was an--ah--superior sort of a girl; breeding, you know, and all that, or so I have gathered, while he--" But I stayed no longer to listen. What was the use? There was not merely a little of snobbishness in her. I did not even insist that "she" might have been, or add that it was really true. But I went West promptly to see. Perry Blair had scarcely guessed at the possibilities of that valley. There were five dozen, or five hundred white-faced Herefords under fence; or five thousand. I forget which, for I was not curious concerning these. But having cornered her at last I put the question bluntly. "What about that career?" I wanted to know. "There's a crying need just now for good senators--plain statesmanship handled neatly." She colored a little. "Wel-l-l," she was going to slide out of it if she could, "Perry's awfully busy right now, it's so hard to get trustworthy men. And--and then, anyhow, I'm not so sure I'd care to have him enter politics, as they are at present--even if--" "Don't blame you," I concluded. "Wise decision. But what about the ministry--how about that?" Here, however, she would have rallied and protested hotly that she had never been keen about the ministry--not at all!--when an occurrence just outside the open door saved her the need. Perry Blair--Blue Jeans, with no rent in his shirt and a nonsensically expensive hat--had been driving a nail into the wall. The nail had dodged and he had struck his thumb, and was commenting upon it plainly, though with no great heat, aloud. And she grew pinker still. "You are a hypocrite," I complained with scorn. "You should blush!" And dropped the matter there. But I was less concerned with the question of their happiness. And that evening, when a puncher brought a pasteboard box in the mail and all innocently they opened it before me, I became very sure. For the box held a pair of those inadequate articles of apparel known, I believe, as bootees, designed and executed in knitted silk for an expected new arrival. And they forgot me, forgot that this expectation was supposed to be a secret, in exclaiming over the mystery of who had found them out. Then she came upon the card. There was no name or address; just one line: "Winner take all!" it read. Yes--Felicity. After a long period of grave silence which had come upon them: "See!" she exclaimed softly. "Pink! A girl! Haven't I been telling you so, all along?"