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“And here,” finished Irish a couple of hours later, when he was talking the thing over with the Little Doctor, “here’s a note Take-Notice’s girl gave me for him. I don’t reckon there’s any good news in it, so maybe yuh better hold it out on him till he’s got over the fever. I guess we queered Andy a lot–but I’ll ride over, soon as I can, and fix it up with her and tell her he broke his leg, all right. Maybe,” he finished optimistically, “she’ll come over to see him.”

Irish kept his word, though he delayed until the next day; and the next day it was too late. For the cabin of Take-Notice was closed and empty, and the black lamb and the white were nosing unhappily their over-turned pan of mush, and bleating lonesomely. Irish waited a while and started home again; rode into the trail and met Bert Rogers, who explained:

“Take-Notice was hauling his girl, trunk and all, to the depot,” he told Irish. “I met ’em just this side the lane. They aimed to catch the afternoon train, I reckon. She was going home, Take-Notice told me.”

So Irish rode thoughtfully back to the ranch and went straight to the White House where Andy lay, meaning to break the news as carefully as he knew how.

Andy was lying in bed looking big-eyed at the ceiling, and in his hand was the note. He turned his head and glanced indifferently at Irish.

“Yuh sure made a good job of it, didn’t yuh?” he began calmly, though it was not the calm which meant peace. “I was just about engaged to that girl. If it’ll do yuh any good to know how nice and thorough yuh busted everything up for me, read that.” He held out the paper, and Irish turned a guilty red when he took it.

“Mr. Green: I have just been greatly entertained with the history of your very peculiar deeds and adventures, and I wish to say that I have discovered myself wholly lacking the sense of humor which is necessary to appreciate you.

“As I am going home to-morrow, this is my only opportunity of letting you know how thoroughly I detest falsehood in any form. Yours truly,

“MARY EDITH JOHNSON.”

“Ain’t yuh proud?” Andy inquired in a peculiar, tired voice. “Maybe I’m a horrible liar, all right–but I never done anybody a dirty trick like that.”

Irish might have said it was Jack Bates who did the mischief, but he did not. “We never knew it was anything serious,” he explained contritely. “On the dead, I’m sorry–“

“And that does a damned lot uh good–if she’s gone!” Andy cut in, miserably.

“Oh, she’s gone, all right. She went to-day,” murmured Irish, and went out and shut the door softly behind him.