I gave Gun the paper; he thanked me; said he must look out better for
those receipts, and added that he was educating a bit of a girl out on
the coast.
"Yours, Gun?" I asked kindly.
"No, John; she ain't; I'd give $5,000 if she was."
He looked at me straight, with that clear, blue eye, and I knew he told
me the truth.
"How old is she?" I asked.
"I don't know; 'bout five or six."
"Ever seen her?"
"No."
"Where did you get her?"
"Ain't had her."
"Tell me about her?"
"She was willed to me, John, kinder put in extra, but I can't tell you
her story now, partly because I don't know it all myself, and partly
because I won't--I won't even tell her."
I did not again refer to Gun's little girl, and soon other experiences
and other biographies crowded the story out of my mind.
One evening in the spring, I sat by the open window, enjoying the cool
night breeze from off the mountains, when I heard Gun's cheery voice on
the porch below. He was lecturing his fireman, in his own, unique way.
"Well, Jim, if I ain't ashamed of you! There ain't no one but you;
coming into general headquarters with a flutter in the stack, so full
that you can't whistle, air-pump a-squealing 'count of water, smeared
from stack to man-hole, headlight smoked and glimmery, don't know your
own rights, kind o' runnin' wildcat, without proper signals, imagining
you're first section with a regardless order.
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