At the farmhouse the farmer's wife greeted them
kindly, thanked Billy for returning her pail--which, if the
truth were known, she had not expected to see again--and
gave them each a handful of thick, light, golden-brown cookies,
the tops of which were encrusted with sugar.
As they walked away Bridge sighed. "Nothing on earth like
a good woman," he said.
"'Maw,' or 'Penelope'?" asked Billy.
"Either, or both," replied Bridge. "I have no Penelope, but
I did have a mighty fine 'maw'."
Billy made no reply. He was thinking of the slovenly,
blear-eyed woman who had brought him into the world. The
memory was far from pleasant. He tried to shake it off.
"'Bridge,'" he said, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing,
in an effort to change the subject. "That's an odd name.
I've heard of Bridges and Bridger; but I never heard Bridge
before."
"Just a name a fellow gave me once up on the Yukon,"
explained Bridge. "I used to use a few words he'd never heard
before, so he called me 'The Unabridged,' which was too long.
The fellows shortened it to 'Bridge' and it stuck. It has always
stuck, and now I haven't any other. I even think of myself,
now, as Bridge. Funny, ain't it?"
"Yes," agreed Billy, and that was the end of it.
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