A pair of large, jingling silver spurs and a stiff sombrero, borrowed with the mustang from some mysterious source, were donned to do honor to the occasion.
The young girls were not yet ready, but he was shown by the Chinese servant into the parlor to wait for them.

The decanter of whiskey and glasses were still invitingly there.

He was hot, trembling, and flushed with triumph.

He walked to the table and laid his hand on the decanter, when an odd thought flashed upon him.

He would not drink this time.
No, it should not be said that he, the selected escort of the elite of Devil's Ford, had to fill himself up with whiskey before they started.
The boys might turn to each other in their astonishment, as he proudly passed with his fair companions, and say, "It's Whiskey Dick," but he'd be d----d if they should add, "and full as ever." No, sir! Nor when he was riding beside these real ladies, and leaning over them at some confidential moment, should they even know it from his breath! No.