“I’m going to marry the young lady who just passed tonight，”
says Mack， in a kind of flutter.
“I forgot something at the post-office，” says I， andwalked away quick.
I overtook that young woman a hundred yards away.
I raised my hat and told her my name. She was aboutnineteen； and young for her age. She blushed， and thenlooked at me cool， like I was the snow scene from the “TwoOrphans.”
“I understand you are to be married to-night，” I said.
“Correct，” says she. “You got any objections？”
“Listen， sissy，” I begins.
“My name is Miss Rebosa Redd，” says she in a painedway.
“I know it，” says I. “Now， Rebosa， I’m old enough tohave owed money to your father. And that old， specious，dressed-up， garbled， sea-sick ptomaine prancing aboutavidiously like an irremediable turkey gobbler with patentleather shoes on is my best friend. Why did you go and gethim invested in this marriage business？”
“Why， he was the only chance there was，” answers MissRebosa.
“Nay，” says I， giving a sickening look of admiration ather complexion and style of features； “with your beautyyou might pick any kind of a man. Listen， Rebosa. OldMack ain’t the man you want. He was twenty-two whenyou was nee Reed， as the papers say. This bursting intobloom won’t last with him. He’s all ventilated with oldnessand rectitude and decay. Old Mack’s down with a caseof Indian summer. He overlooked his bet when he wasyoung； and now he’s suing Nature for the interest on thepromissory note he took from Cupid instead of the cash.
Rebosa， are you bent on having this marriage occur？”
“Why， sure I am，” says she， oscillating the pansies on herhat， “and so is somebody else， I reckon.”
“What time is it to take place？” I asks.
“At six o’clock，” says she.
I made up my mind right away what to do. I’d save oldMack if I could. To have a good， seasoned， ineligible manlike that turn chicken for a girl that hadn’t quit eating slatepencils and buttoning in the back was more than I couldlook on with easiness.
“Rebosa，” says I， earnest， drawing upon my display ofknowledge concerning the feminine intuitions of reason—“ain’t there a young man in Pina—a nice young man thatyou think a heap of？”
“Yep，” says Rebosa， nodding her pansies— “Sure thereis！ What do you think！ Gracious！”
“Does he like you？” I asks. “How does he stand in thematter？”
“Crazy，” says Rebosa. “Ma has to wet down the front stepsto keep him from sitting there all the time. But I guessthat’ll be all over after to-night，” she winds up with a sigh.
“Rebosa，” says I， “you don’t really experience any of thisadoration called love for old Mack， do you？”
“Lord！ no，” says the girl， shaking her head. “I think he’sas dry as a lava bed. The idea！”
“Who is this young man that you like， Rebosa？” I inquires.
“It’s Eddie Bayles，” says she. “He clerks in Crosby’sgrocery. But he don’t make but thirty-five a month. EllaNoakes was wild about him once.”
“Old Mack tells me，” I says， “that he’s going to marryyou at six o’clock this evening.”
“That’s the time，” says she. “It’s to be at our house.”
“Rebosa，” says I， “listen to me. If Eddie Bayles had athousand dollars cash—a thousand dollars， mind you，would buy him a store of his own—if you and Eddie hadthat much to excuse matrimony on， would you consent tomarry him this evening at five o’clock？”
The girl looks at me a minute； and I can see theseinaudible cogitations going on inside of her， as women will.
“A thousand dollars？” says she. “Of course I would.”
“Come on，” says I. “We’ll go and see Eddie.”
We went up to Crosby’s store and called Eddie outside.
He looked to be estimable and freckled； and he had chillsand fever when I made my proposition.
“At five o’clock？” says he， “for a thousand dollars？ Pleasedon’t wake me up！ Well， you are the rich uncle retiredfrom the spice business in India！ I’ll buy out old Crosbyand run the store myself.”
We went inside and got old man Crosby apart andexplained it. I wrote my check for a thousand dollars andhanded it to him. If Eddie and Rebosa married each otherat five he was to turn the money over to them.
And then I gave ’em my blessing， and went to wanderin the wildwood for a season. I sat on a log and madecogitations on life and old age and the zodiac and the waysof women and all the disorder that goes with a lifetime. Ipassed myself congratulations that I had probably savedmy old friend Mack from his attack of Indian summer. Iknew when he got well of it and shed his infatuation andhis patent leather shoes， he would feel grateful. “To keepold Mack disinvolved，” thinks I， “from relapses like this，is worth more than a thousand dollars.” And most of all Iwas glad that I’d made a study of women， and wasn’t to bedeceived any by their means of conceit and evolution.
It must have been half-past five when I got back home.
I stepped in； and there sat old Mack on the back of hisneck in his old clothes with his blue socks on the windowand the History of Civilisation propped up on his knees.
“This don’t look like getting ready for a wedding at six，”
I says， to seem innocent.
“Oh，” says Mack， reaching for his tobacco， “that waspostponed back to five o’clock. They sent me over a notesaying the hour had been changed. It’s all over now. Whatmade you stay away so long， Andy？”
“You heard about the wedding？” I asks.
“I operated it，” says he. “I told you I was justice of thepeace. The preacher is off East to visit his folks， and I’mthe only one in town that can perform the dispensationsof marriage. I promised Eddie and Rebosa a month ago I’dmarry ’em. He’s a busy lad； and he’ll have a grocery of hisown some day.”
“He will，” says I.
“There was lots of women at the wedding，” says Mack，smoking up. “But I didn’t seem to get any ideas from ’em.
I wish I was informed in the structure of their attainmentslike you said you was.”
“That was two months ago，” says I， reaching up for thebanjo.