"Shucks! I've only been looking around and observing some things that I didn't know before, Frank."
"As what, for instance?" demanded the other smilingly.
"First off the bat, it isn't the chaps that make the genuine puncher. I've noticed that generally the greenhorn has the niftiest outfit you ever laid eyes on and struts around when decked out like he owned the whole world."
"But, Lanky, every puncher does have chaps, and often more than one pair."
"Sure does, Frank. But—and here's where my argus eyes came in good—the finest rig he owns he keeps for extra occasions, like going to a dance or when taking cattle to the station for shipment; because, don't you see, on those special events he's apt to run across some of the girls."
Frank laughed at that, and wagged his head in appreciation.
"Your sagacity does you credit, Lanky."
"Look at our bunch at work on the range, rounding up strays, branding the youngsters, or doing any sort of work like that. Why, some of 'em even wear plain faded jean overalls, and the only things that would tell you they were punchers are their cowboy hats and the ropes they always carry."
"I can see you're making the grade, all right, old chum," chucked Frank. "And I give you a heap of credit for taking note of such happenings. Not much gets past your eyes—while they're open, I mean, Lanky."