What would
the correct Sylvester say to me? What would the girls,--I was a
young man then, and had won an entree to their domestic circle by
my reserve,--known by a less complimentary adjective among "the
boys,"--what would they say to my new acquaintance? Yet I
certainly could not object to his assuming all risks on his own
personal recognizances, nor could I resist a certain feeling of
shame at my embarrassment.
We were beginning to descend. In the distance below us already
twinkled the lights in the solitary rancho of Lone Valley. I
turned to my companion. "But you have forgotten that I don't even
know your name. What am I to call you?"
"That's so," he said, musingly. "Now, let's see. 'Kearney' would
be a good name. It's short and easy like. Thar's a street in
'Frisco the same title; Kearney it is."
"But--" I began impatiently.
"Now you leave all that to me," he interrupted, with a superb self-
confidence that I could not but admire. "The name ain't no
account. It's the man that's responsible. Ef I was to lay for a
man that I reckoned was named Jones, and after I fetched him I
found out on the inquest that his real name was Smith, that
wouldn't make no matter, as long as I got the man.
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