"Hello, Weston." Ross was so astonished to see him there that he nearly forgot to count the explosions that just then thundered in the tunnel behind him.
"One, two, three, four, five." That accounted for the five sticks.
He leaned against the tool house, and looked at Lon through the dusk. Lon’s cap was pulled down over his eyes. His sheepskin collar was turned up, meeting the cap. All that was visible of his face was a bit of beard protruding around the stem of the pipe. But the voice sounded a more amiable note than it ever had in the stage camp, although his manner revealed an uneasy embarrassment.
"Well, Doc, how d’ye like minin’?"
"I don’t like it at all," replied Ross honestly.
"Seems t’ like you all right," returned Lon. "You’re in better flesh and color than you was down on Dry Creek."
"So are you," retorted Ross, laughing.
Lon made no reply. He moved restlessly.
"Done any studyin’ in that pile o’ books ye had along?" he asked abruptly after a time.
"No." Ross’s tone was crisp. "Haven’t studied a word." The subject was a tender one with him.