Judging from my companion's conversation since I had met him, I had a suspicion he was a better pool player than he was wheat shocker, but the wealthy ranch owners of Texas at this season of the year, when their thousands of acres of land are lying in unshocked wheat, are glad enough to get a man, even if he is a slow worker and from the city.
Some time after dark we came upon a small, one-room hut. Near the hut was a large, covered wagon.
"Here's where you sleep," said the ranchman. "Just go right in and make your bed out of wheat."
Everything was very still in the hut, considering the fact that the one room contained some ten or a dozen men; but the men who had labored long and hard under the hot Texas sun that day were now scattered here and there about the hut floor, wrapped in a deep, sweet sleep. (Each of these men was from a different city or State, as I afterwards learned.)
There was plenty of wheat strewn about the floor for us to lie upon, and soon two other weary, footsore travelers, lulled by the soft breeze blowing in the window, had fallen easy victims to the soothing caresses of Morpheus.
It was about 4 a. m. that we were roused out of bed by a man announcing that breakfast was ready.
For once I didn't care to eat.
"Come and get it, or I'll throw it out—Come and get it or I'll throw it out," yelled a loud voice from the vicinity of the wagon.
"What's he going to throw out?" I asked the fellow who had disturbed my sleep.
"It's the cook calling the men to breakfast," said he, "and you'd better hurry if you want any."