“Well, maybe it is,” said Henry pensively. “I got an unaccountable in the National Individual—and a couple of threes in the Palma tryouts that looked all right when they left. Maybe old Betsey’s gone, at last.” He smoothed the stock of the squat brown rifle caressingly.
“Say, mister,” began the derby-hatted traveling man, elbowing his way forward, “you’re a professional, aint you? You give exhibitions around the country, don’t you?”
“Hell, no,” replied the little man. “I run a grocery-store in Palmdale. And my friend here’s a banker. Say, you ought to see him shoot! He’s the boy that—”
“Aw, shut up,” interrupted Ed, dragging Henry off toward the stage. The driver was honking impatiently.
“I don’t get it,” complained the derby-hatted one, falling into step with Sam. “He says he aint a profesh. A grocer, and shootin’ like that! An amateur!”
“Ayah,” replied Sam, wiping the sweat off his fat red forehead with a once-clean apron. “I’ve seen ’em, them kind o’ birds, froggin’ around, shootin’ at paper targets out in the cactus. And I laughed at ’em for crazy fools. But I don’t laugh no more, _hombre_.”
He looked after the pair ahead with a sort of proprietory pride. “Just ordinary citizens, but it shows what kind o’ people us Americans are. Is it any wonder we won that damn’ war?”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 25 issue of Blue Book Magazine.