Jeff’s eyes grew big and round; his lips were slightly parted; the thumbs drooped, the fingers spread wide apart in mutual dismay. Holding Aughinbaugh’s eyes with his own, he pressed one outspread hand over his heart. Slowly, cautiously, the other hand fumbled in a vest pocket, produced notebook and pencil, spread the book stealthily on his knee and began to write. “‘A good name,’” he murmured, “‘is rather to be chosen than great riches.’”
But the owner of the good name was a lad of spirit, and had no mind to submit tamely to such hazing. “See here! What does a cowboy know about the Bible, anyway?” he demanded, glaring indignantly. “I believe you’re a sheep in wolves’ clothing! You don’t talk like a cowboy—or look like a cowboy.”
Jeff glanced down at his writing, and back to his questioner. Then he made an alteration, closed the book and looked up again. He had a merry eye.
“Exactly how does a cowboy look? And how does it talk?” he asked mildly. He glanced with much interest over as much of his own person as he could see; turning and twisting to aid the process. “I don’t see anything wrong. Is my hair on straight?”
“Wrong!” echoed Aughinbaugh severely, shaking an accusing finger. “Why, you’re all wrong. What the public expects——”
Mr. Bransford’s interruption may be omitted. It was profane. Also, it was plagiarized from Commodore Vanderbilt.
“You a cowboy! Yah!” said Aughinbaugh in vigorous scorn. “With a silk necktie! Everybody knows that the typical cowboy wears a red cotton handkerchief.”
“How long since you left New York?”
“Me? I’m from Kansas City.”
“Same thing,” said Bransford coldly. “I mean, how long since you came to El Paso? And have you been out of town since?”