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Page 48
Echo had taken the souvenirs of the hunt and trail which Jack had
collected, and, with a woman's touch of refinement, had used them
for decorative effects. She had in truth made the room her very
own. The grace and charm of her personality were stamped upon
the environment.
The men of the ranch fairly worshiped Echo. Sending to Kansas
City, they purchased a piano for her as a birthday-gift. On the
morning when the wagon brought it over from Florence station,
little work was done about the place. The instrument had been
unpacked and placed in the living-room in Echo's absence. Mrs.
Allen, Polly, and Jim rode over to be present at the
presentation. The donors gathered in the living-room to admire
the gift, which shone bravely under the energetic polishing of
Mrs. Allen.
"That's an elegant instrument," was her observation, as she
flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the case.
Polly opened the lid, saying: "Just what Echo wanted."
Jim cocked his head, as if he were examining a new pinto pony.
"Sent all the way up to Kansas City for it, eh?"
"That's right, Uncle Jim," chorused the punchers.
"Now the room's complete," announced Polly. "Echo's made a big
change around here." The group gravely followed Polly's
approving glances.
"That she has," assented Mrs. Allen. "Looked a barn when Jack
was a bachelor. This certainly is the finest kind of a
birthday-present you all could have thought of."
"Josephine'll cry in a minute, boys," chuckled Allen.
"You hesh up," snapped his wife, glaring at the grinning
ranchman.
Sage-brush poured oil on the roughening waters by changing the
conversation. Speaking as if making a dare, he challenged:
"What I want to know is, is there anybody here present as can
rassle a tune out of that there box?"
No one came forward.
"Ain't there none of you boys that can play on a pianny?" he
demanded.
"I've played on the big square one down at the Lone Star,"
gravely piped up Show Low.
"What did you play," asked the inquisitive Polly.
"Poker," answered Show Low seriously, his face showing no trace
of humor.
"Poker!" Polly repeated, in disgust.
"That's all they ever plays on it," explained Show Low
indignantly.
Polly grew impatient. This presentation was a serious affair and
not to be turned into an audience for the exploitation of Show
Low's adventures. Moreover, she did not like to be used even
indirectly as a target for fun-making, although she delighted in
making some one else a feeder for her ideas of fun.
Fresno modestly announced he was something of a musical artist.
"I 'low I can shake a tune out of that," he declared.
"Let's hear you," cried Polly, rather doubtful of Fresno's
ability.
"Step up, perfesser," cried Allen heartily, slapping him on the
back.
Fresno grinned and solemnly rolled up his sleeves. His comrades
eyed his every move closely. He spat on his hands, approached
the piano, and glared fiercely at the keyboard.
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