“Can’t do it.  Where are yu’ goin’?”

“Christmasing,” replied Fate.

“Well, I’ve got to feed my horse.  Christmasing, yu’ say?”

“Yes; I’m buying toys.”

“Toys!  You?  What for?”

“Oh, some kids.”

“Yourn?” screeched Lin, precipitately.

His Excellency the jovial Governor opened his teeth in pleasure at this, for he was a bachelor, and there were fifteen upon his list, which he held up for the edification of the hasty McLean.  “Not mine, I’m happy to say.  My friends keep marrying and settling, and their kids call me uncle, and climb around and bother, and I forget their names, and think it’s a girl, and the mother gets mad.  Why, if I didn’t remember these little folks at Christmas they’d be wondering—­not the kids, they just break your toys and don’t notice; but the mother would wonder—­’What’s the matter with Dr. Barker?  Has Governor Barker gone back on us?’—­that’s where the strain comes!” he broke off, facing Mr. McLean with another spacious laugh.

But the cow-puncher had ceased to smile, and now, while Barker ran on exuberantly, McLean’s wide-open eyes rested upon him, singular and intent, and in their hazel depths the last gleam of jocularity went out.

“That’s where the strain comes, you see.  Two sets of acquaintances.  Grateful patients and loyal voters, and I’ve got to keep solid with both outfits, especially the wives and mothers.  They’re the people.  So it’s drums, and dolls, and sheep on wheels, and games, and monkeys on a stick, and the saleslady shows you a mechanical bear, and it costs too much, and you forget whether the Judge’s second girl is Nellie or Susie, and—­well, I’m just in for my annual circus this afternoon!  You’re in luck.  Christmas don’t trouble a chap fixed like you.”

Lin McLean prolonged the sentence like a distant echo.

“A chap fixed like you!” The cow-puncher said it slowly to himself.  “No, sure.”  He seemed to be watching Shorty, and Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill going down the road.  “That’s a new idea—­Christmas,” he murmured, for it was one of his oldest, and he was recalling the Christmas when he wore his first long trousers.

“Comes once a year pretty regular,” remarked the prosperous Governor.  “Seems often when you pay the bill.”

“I haven’t made a Christmas gift,” pursued the cow-puncher, dreamily, “not for—­for—­Lord! it’s a hundred years, I guess.  I don’t know anybody that has any right to look for such a thing from me.”  This was indeed a new idea, and it did not stop the chill that was spreading in his heart.

“Gee whiz!” said Barker, briskly, “there goes twelve o’clock.  I’ve got to make a start.  Sorry you can’t come and help me.  Good-bye!”