“How much are them sinkers?” he demanded.
“Doughnuts? Two for a nickel.”
“Gimme a dozen and keep the change,” directed Laramie. And he parted with his remaining fifty cents.
Toting away the sack, at last he felt like himself—busted. He swaggered through the station outskirts and into the yards; and at a string of empty stock-cars finally found a brakeman whom he knew.
The 77 was at the tail-end of loading when he appeared, tousled and redeyed from journey by freight, at the camp near town—he having hopped off, convenient.
“It’s Laramie! Whoopee! Thought you were in Kansas City.”
“So I was,” said Laramie; and he took mental note of the ravages of time in that period of his absence. All the outfit had not come to yet. “Howdy, Tex? Need a hand?”
Tex faced him.
“By jiminy! Out by passenger, back by freight! Or did you walk! Busted, I’ll bet.”
“You win,” granted Laramie.