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Mr. Pratt came closer, lowered his voice, and reddened slightly. "Anyway, when you join, d'reckon you could get me in with you?"

Abner looked at the little clerk with surprise and distaste.

"What in the hell do you want to join fer?"

Mr. Pratt became more embarrassed and stammered in an undertone, "Uh—to tell the truth—it—it's Miss Beatrice. . . ."

Abner could do nothing but stare in amazement. The drug clerk went on more confusedly than ever:

"She—you know—don't like a fellow who—er—just stays in a drug store—where nothin' happens—I mean like mobs and gambling an' shootings—something that appeals to a girl—I mean in a man. Mr. Ransom said he would give me a week off, and I—I thought if you could get me in with the strike breakers, and—and there was some—some fighting and shooting and drinking or—or something, it—it"—Mr. Pratt swallowed—"it would please her. . . ."

"Fuh God's sake, what an idyah!" ejaculated Abner.

However, the idea effectually stopped Abner from slapping Mr. Pratt's jaws as he had intended. It left the teamster a little at sea. He decided quickly, since he could not beat up Mr. Pratt, he would "bawl him out."

Abner cleared his throat and began his bawling out.

"Look here, Pratt, whether you go or don't go, I don't give a damn. I come here to see you about what you done to Beatrice Belle las' night."

"What was that?" asked the drug clerk, quite astonished at this turn.

"Well, you—er—kep' huggin' her after she tol' you not to."

"They all tell you not to," he said, still mystified.

"Well, by God, Pratt—

"An' besides, we'd been hugging all evening."

"You had!"

"Dancing."

"Dancin's one thing and huggin's another. You knowed