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Behind the curtain, Annie Pilgreen stood simpering in her place and Happy Jack went reluctantly forward, resigned and deplorably inefficient. Weary, himself again now that his torment was over, posed him cheerfully. But Happy Jack did not get the idea. He stood, as Weary told him disgustedly, looking like a hitching-post. Weary labored with him desperately, his ear strained to keep in touch with the music which would, at the proper time, die to a murmur which would be a signal for the red fire and the tableau. Already the lamps were being turned low, out there beyond the curtain.

Though it was primarily a scheme of torture for Happy Jack, Weary was anxious that it should be technically perfect. He became impatient. “Say, don’t stand there like a kink-necked horse, Happy!” he implored under his breath. “Ain’t there any joints in your arms?”

“I ain’t never practised it,” Happy Jack protested in a hoarse whisper. “I never even seen a tableau in my life, even. If somebody’d show me once, so’s I could get the hang of it–“

“Oh, mamma! you’re a peach, all right. Here, give me that sage brush! Now, watch. We haven’t got all night to make medicine over it. See? Yuh want to hold it over her head and kinda bend down, like yuh were daring yourself to kiss–“

Happy Jack backed off to get the effect; incidentally, he took the curtain back with him; also incidentally–, Johnny dropped a match into the red fire, which glowed beautifully. Weary caught his breath, but he was game and never moved any eyelash.

The red glow faded and left an abominable smell behind it, and some merciful hand drew the curtain–but it was not the hand of Happy Jack. He had gone out through the window and was crouching beneath it drinking in greedily the hand-clapping and the stamping of feet and the whistling, with occasional shouts of mirth which he recognized as coming from the rest of the Happy Family. It all sounded very sweet to the great, red ears of Happy Jack.

When the clatter showed signs of abatement he stole away to where his horse was tied, his sorrel coat gleaming with frost sparkles in the moonlight. “It’s you and me to hit the trail, Spider,” he croaked to the horse, and with his bare hand scraped the frost from the saddle.

A tall figure crept up from behind and grappled with him. Spider danced away as far as the rope would permit and snorted, and two struggling forms squirmed away from his untrustworthy heels.

“Aw, leggo!” cried Happy Jack when he could breathe again.

“I won’t. You’ve got to come back and square yourself with Annie. How do yuh reckon she’s feeling at the trick yuh played on her, yuh lop-eared–“

Happy Jack jerked loose and stood grinning in the moonlight. “Aw, gwan. Annie knowed I was goin’ to do it,” he retorted, loftily. “Annie and me’s engaged.” He got into the saddle and rode off, shouting back taunts.

Weary stood bareheaded in the cold and stared after him blankly.