"But you don't get in a hunky-dory, simple!"
"No?" said Tom, in a manner of challenge to simplicity. "Why not?"
"Well, I don't know what a hunky-dory is, only that it's a—it's a—a state of affairs, not something you get into."
"Wrong, my lady. A dory is a nice little boat, and one gets into a nice little boat, doesn't one?"
"Generally two. But that don't account for the hunky. Nobody ever gets into a hunky, alone or with somebody. I don't know what it is—it don't go alone that way, Tom. You say it hunky-hyphen-dory. It's all one thing, and it's a state of affairs, a pleasant state of affairs, not something you get into for a ride, dunce!"
"I fancy a hunky is something nice and comfortable, anyhow, and that amounts to the same thing. But it's like that other word you objected to, that word straddling, you know. Not so very elegant, when it comes to that."
The women had their laugh at Tom's serious way of humor, which seemed ponderous compared to the sharp quips they were accustomed to. Tom stood by as solemn as a priest, but with that gleam of lively appreciation in his eyes which lit up his sacerdotal countenance like firelight upon a wall. Waco Johnson was standing around the corral gate in the way of a man who waited the verdict of a jury. Tom went out to tell him he had been admitted to the bone company without bond.
Tom was on the road next morning after an early breakfast. He had explained to Waco that retaliatory measures were to be expected from the Wade Harrison gang, and left that worthy gentleman armed and hopeful. Waco was harnessing up a fresh pair of horses, neither
