“You've ben drinkin' before you met me,” Mary continued. “I can see it stickin' out all over you.”
“Consult an , my dear,” he replied. “Bertram is himself to-night. An' he is here, arisin' to his feet to give the glad hand to his old . Bill, old man, here's to you. It's how-de-do an' good-bye, I guess. You're a married man now, Bill, an' you got to keep regular hours. No more runnin' around with the boys. You gotta take care of yourself, an' get your life insured, an' take out an accident policy, an' join a buildin' an' loan society, an' a buryin' association—”
“Now you shut up, Bert,” Mary broke in. “You don't talk about buryin's at weddings. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”
“Whoa, Mary! Back up! I said what I said because I meant it. I ain't thinkin' what Mary thinks. What I was thinkin'.... Let me tell you what I was thinkin'. I said buryin' association, didn't I? Well, it was not with the idea of castin' gloom over this merry gatherin'. Far be it....”
He was so evidently seeking a way out of his predicament, that Mary tossed her head . This acted as a spur to his reeling wits.
“Let me tell you why,” he went on. “Because, Bill, you got such an all-fired pretty wife, that's why. All the fellows is crazy over her, an' when they get to runnin' after her, what'll you be doin'? You'll be gettin' busy. And then won't you need a buryin' association to bury 'em? I just guess yes. That was the compliment to your good taste in skirts I was tryin' to come across with when Mary in.”
His glittering eyes rested for a moment in triumph on Mary.
“Who says I'm squiffed? Me? Not on your life. I'm seein' all things in a clear white light. An' I see Bill there, my old friend Bill. An' I don't see two Bills. I see only one. Bill was never two-faced in his life. Bill, old man, when I look at you there in the married harness, I'm sorry—” He ceased and turned on Mary. “Now don't go up in the air, old girl. I'm onto my job. My grandfather was a state senator, and he could spiel an' pleasin' till the cows come home. So can I.—Bill, when I look at you, I'm sorry. I repeat, I'm sorry.” He glared challengingly at Mary. “For myself when I look at you an' know all the happiness you got a hammerlock on. Take it from me, you're a wise guy, bless the women. You've started well. Keep it up. Marry 'em all, bless 'em. Bill, here's to you. You're a Mohegan with a scalplock. An' you got a squaw that is some squaw, take it from me. Minnehaha, here's to you—to the two of you—an' to the papooses, too, gosh-dang them!”
He drained the glass suddenly and in his chair, blinking his eyes across at the couple while tears unheeded down his cheeks. Mary's hand went out to his, completing his break-down.
“By God, I got a right to cry,” he . “I'm losin' my best friend, ain't I? It'll never be the same again never. When I think of the fun, an' scrapes, an' good times Bill an' me has had together, I could darn near hate you, Saxon, sittin' there with your hand in his.”
“Cheer up, Bert,” she laughed gently. “Look at whose hand you are holding.”
“Aw, it's only one of his cryin' jags,” Mary said, with a harshness that her free hand
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