By this time it was nearly nine o'clock, but a light shone in the
Greiffenhagen parlour. As the young men dismounted and hitched their
horses to the fence, the strains from an American organ were heard.
Pete rapped upon the door, which was opened by Greiffenhagen. He kept
the village store, which was also the post-office, and, although
German himself, had married an American wife. Pete said in a loud
voice--
"It's kind o' late, but this is a P.P.C. call."
As he spoke, there was wafted to the nostrils of Greiffenhagen the
familiar fragrance of Bourbon. He glanced at Dan and Jimmie. Each
appeared almost abnormally sober and solemn. At this moment Miss Mary
Willing flitted up.
"Why, it's Mr. Holloway!" she exclaimed stiffly.
The three entered. As they passed the threshold, Jimmie stumbled, but
recovered himself. He saluted the ladies with decorum, and the three
sat down upon the edge of the chairs that were offered to them. Then
Miss Edna Parkinson, who was the only person present besides Pete who
understood what was meant by a P.P.C. call, and who knew also that,
the big _rodeo_ being over, it was possible that the three
cowboys had been discharged, said sympathetically--
"You ain't leaving these parts, are you?"
Pete answered grimly: "It's more'n likely that we air.
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