Forrest's exclamation was still ringing in his consciousness so that
he recognized the source of Oh My's inspiration.

"Very well. The boy's name is Oh Ho."

Oh My lowered his head, ebbed swiftly through the French windows, and
as swiftly returned with the rest of Forrest's clothes-gear, helping
him into undershirt and shirt, tossing a tie around his neck for him
to knot, and, kneeling, putting on his leggings and spurs. A Baden
Powell hat and a quirt completed his appareling--the quirt, Indian-
braided of rawhide, with ten ounces of lead braided into the butt that
hung from his wrist on a loop of leather.

But Forrest was not yet free. Oh My handed him several letters, with
the explanation that they had come up from the station the previous
night after Forrest had gone to bed. He tore the right-hand ends
across and glanced at the contents of all but one with speed. The
latter he dwelt upon for a moment, with an irritated indrawing of
brows, then swung out the phonograph from the wall, pressed the button
that made the cylinder revolve, and swiftly dictated, without ever a
pause for word or idea:

"In reply to yours of March 14, 1914, I am indeed sorry to learn that
you were hit with hog cholera. I am equally sorry that you have seen
fit to charge me with the responsibility. And just as equally am I
sorry that the boar we sent you is dead.

"I can only assure you that we are quite clear of cholera here, and
that we have been clear of cholera for eight years, with the exception