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Lin McLean-Part13_Owen Wister(1860-1938)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"He looks livelier than you do," said the hearty Governor. "'Fraid it's

been slow waiting."



"No," replied the cow-puncher, thoughtfully. "No, I guess not."

This uncertainty was expressed with such gentleness that Barker roared.



"You never did lie to me," he said, "long as I've known you. Well, never

mind. I've got some real advice to ask you now."



At this Mr. McLean's face grew more alert. "Say Doc," said he, "what do

yu' want for Christmas that nobody's likely to give yu'?"



"A big practice--big enough to interfere with my politics."

"What else? Things and truck, I mean."



"Oh--nothing I'll get. People don't give things much to fellows like me."

"Don't they? Don't they?"



"Why, you and Santa Claus weren't putting up any scheme on my stocking?"

"Well--"



"I believe you're in earnest!" cried his Excellency. "That's simply

rich!" Here was a thing to relish! The Frontier comes to town "heeled for



a big time," finds that presents are all the rage, and must immediately

give somebody something. Oh, childlike, miscellaneous Frontier! So



thought the good-hearted Governor; and it seems a venial misconception.

"My dear fellow," he added, meaning as well as possible, "I don't want



you to spend your money on me."

"I've got plenty all right," said Lin, shortly.



"Plenty's not the point. I'll take as many drinks as you please with you.

You didn't expect anything from me?"



"That ain't--that don't--"

"There! Of course you didn't. Then, what are you getting proud about?



Here's our shop." They stepped in from the street to new crowds and

counters. "Now," pursued the Governor, "this is for a very particular



friend of mine. Here they are. Now, which of those do you like best?"

They were sets of Tennyson in cases holding little volumes equal in



number, but the binding various, and Mr. McLean reached his decision

after one look. "That," said he, and laid a large muscular hand upon the



Laureate. The young lady behind the counter spoke out acidly, and Lin

pulled the abject hand away. His taste, however, happened to be sound,



or, at least, it was at one with the Governor's; but now they learned

that there was a distressing variance in the matter of price.



The Governor stared at the delicate article of his choice. "I know that

Tennyson is what she--is what's wanted," he muttered; and, feeling



himself nudged, looked around and saw Lin's extended fist. This gesture

he took for a facetious sympathy, and, dolorously grasping the hand,



found himself holding a lump of bills. Sheer amazement relaxed him, and

the cow-puncher's matted wealth tumbled on the floor in sight of all



people. Barker picked it up and gave it back. "No, no, no!" he said,

mirthful over his own inclination to be annoyed; "you can't do that. I'm



just as much obliged, Lin," he added.

"Just as a loan, Doc--some of it. I'm grass-bellied with spot-cash."



A giggle behind the counter disturbed them both, but the sharp young lady

was only dusting. The Governor at once paid haughtily for Tennyson's



expensive works, and the cow-puncher pushed his discountenanced savings

back into his clothes. Making haste to leave the book department of this



shop, they regained a mutual ease, and the Governor became waggish over

Lin's concern at being too rich. He suggested to him the list of



delinquent taxpayers and the latest census from which to select indigent

persons. He had patients, too, whose inveterate pennilessness he could



swear cheerfully to--"since you want to bolt from your own money," he

remarked.



"Yes, I'm a green horse," assented Mr. McLean, gallantly; "ain't used to

the looks of a twenty-dollar bill, and I shy at 'em."



From his face--that jocular mask--one might have counted him the most

serene and careless of vagrants, and in his words only the ordinary



voice of banter spoke to the Governor. A good woman, it may well be,

would have guessed before this the sensitive soul in the blundering body,



but Barker saw just the familiar, whimsical, happy-go-lucky McLean of old

days, and so he went gayly and innocently on, treading upon holy ground.



"I've got it!" he exclaimed; "give your wife something."

The ruddy cow-puncher grinned. He had passed through the world of woman



with but few delays, rejoicing in informal and transient entanglements,

and he welcomed the turn which the conversation seemed now to be taking.






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