The Fighting Shepherdess

In high spirits at first, with his natural drollness, stimulated to brilliancy, his sallies brought smiles from those at adjoining tables. Then he became in turn boastful, arrogant, argumentative, thick of speech, finally, and slow of comprehension, but obstinate always.

"Goin' back jail 'morra, Ol' Dear--goin' finish out my life sentence," when she reminded him of the lateness of the hour and her weariness, and he resented her interference so fiercely when she countermanded an order that she dared not repeat it.

"You lis'en me, waiter, thish my party. Might think I was town drunkard--village sot way my wife tryin' flag me." Mrs. Toomey colored painfully at the attention he attracted.

He turned to a late comer who had seated himself at a small table across the narrow aisle from them. "My wife's a great disappointment to me--no sport--never was, never will be. 'Morra," addressing himself to the stranger exclusively, "goin' back to hear the prairie dogs chatter--goin' listen to the sagebrush tick--back one thousan' miles from an oyster--"

"Jap!" Mrs. Toomey interrupted desperately, "we must be going. Everyone's leaving."

"We'll be closing shortly," the waiter hinted.

Toomey blinked at the check he placed before him.

"Can't see whether tha's twenty dollars, or two hundred dollars or two thousand dollars."

The waiter murmured the amount, but not so softly but that Mrs. Toomey paled when she heard it. He had not enough to pay it, she was sure of it, for while he had brought from the room an amount that would have been ample for any ordinary theater supper, wine had not been in his calculations.

Mrs. Toomey looked on anxiously while he produced the contents of his pocket.

"Sorry, sir, but it isn't enough," said the waiter, after counting the notes he tossed upon the plate.

Toomey found the discovery amusing.

"You s'prise me," he chuckled.

"Sorry, sir, but--" the waiter persisted.

With a swift transition of mood Toomey demanded haughtily: "Gue'sh you don' know who I am?"

"No, sir."

Toomey tapped the lapel of his jacket impressively with his forefinger.

"I'm Jasper Toomey of Prouty, Wyoming."

The waiter received the information without flinching.

"Call up the Blackstone and they'll tell you I'll be in to-morra an' shettle." He wafted the waiter away grandly, that person shrugging a dubious shoulder as he vanished. "They'll tell 'im the f'ancial standin' of Jasper Toomey--shirtingly."

The waiter returned almost immediately.

"The hotel knows you only as a guest, sir."

"Thish is insult--d'lib'rate insult." Mr. Toomey rose to his feet and stood unsteadily. "Send manager to me immedially--immedially!"

"He's busy, sir," replied the waiter with a touch of impatience, "but he said you'd have to settle before leaving."