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 "Not till that dan old sheepwoman gits a divorce off of me."

"She'll never do it, Peck. She thinks too much of you, she adores you, I could see that in the dovy look she gave you when you came in from feeding the horses oats that evening—remember?"

"Don't I!" said Peck, with a bale of regret compressed into the words.

"She likes the name of Peck, too, much better than she does Duke. It suggests something—pecks of money, maybe."

"If I could 'a' got my hands on some of it wouldn't I 'a' made a streak!" said Peck.

"Wouldn't you!" said Rawlins, knowing very well that Peck was right for once.

"Well, don't forgit about them pants, will you, Rawlins?"

"No. I'll remember them—pencil stripe, polka-dots."

"That's the shirt," Peck corrected him severely. "I'd better write it down."

"No need. I can make her understand the ones I mean."

"If you happen around there before the old lady gits back Edith she'll hand 'em over to you, everything I left behind me. She's a good little kid; I made a fool of myself when I turned that girl down to marry the old lady. Little old Edith likes me, too. She tries to hide it, but she likes me. I can see it in her eyes."

Peck tinkled on the saucer that held his pudding, drew a heavy breath of regret, sighed.

"Tell her I said I was sorry I done her any wrong,