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She shook her head.

“No—not much. That isn’t it. Never mind.”

“Or Barrel-tops?” Hank pursued cheerily. “You let me know if any of them come around—and I’ll stave ’em in for you.”

“The—the doll.” She got out the two words, and could manage no more, but let them lie as they fell.

“Sure enough!” The old man caught her up in his arms and started for the stairs. “That doll-baby’s still on your mind, ain’t it? I know. Uncle Hank’ll carry you up to bed.” And on the way he whispered, “Never you mind, Pettie; there’s got to be a trip to Forth Worth right soon—Forth Worth—a real big city; and I’ll make sure your doll-baby comes back from there.”

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In two weeks after that Hilda’s father went to Fort Worth. Hank drove Charley to Mesquite. His last words, as he handed the valise up to his employer in the El Centro stage, were:

“And once more, Charley, whatever else you do, or don’t do, for the love of mercy, don’t forget to fetch a first-class doll for Pettie. I’d ruther see you fail to close the trade with the J. R. Company—I’d ruther you forgot the whole everlastin’ outfit of supplies—than to have you come back without that there doll-baby. It’s a dirty shame that we big, two-fisted, long-legged men haven’t got the child a doll before this.”