The boy went, and Mr. McLean procured hot water and dressed himself, tying his scarf with great care. “Wished I’d a clean shirt,” said he. “But I don’t look very bad. Shavin’ yesterday afternoon was a good move.” He picked up the arrow-head and the kinni-kinnic, and was particular to store them in his safest pocket. “I ain’t sure whether you’re crazy or not,” said he to the man in the looking-glass. “I ’ain’t never been sure.” And he slammed the door and went down-stairs.
He found young Bill on guard over a table for four, with all the chairs tilted against it as a warning to strangers. No one sat at any other table or came into the room, for it was late, and the place quite emptied of breakfasters, and the several entertained waiters had gathered behind Billy’s important-looking back. Lin provided a thorough meal, and Billy pronounced the flannel cakes superior to flapjacks, which were not upon the bill of fare.
“I’d like to see you often,” said he. “I’ll come and see you if you don’t live too far.”
“That’s the trouble,” said the cow-puncher. “I do. Awful far.” He stared out of the window.
“Well, I might come some time. I wish you’d write me a letter. Can you write?”
“What’s that? Can I write? Oh yes.”
“I can write, an’ I can read, too. I’ve been to school in Sidney, Nebraska, an’ Magaw, Kansas, an’ Salt Lake—that’s the finest town except Denver.”
Billy fell into that cheerful strain of comment which, unreplied to, yet goes on content and self-sustaining, while Mr. McLean gave amiable signs of assent, but chiefly looked out of the window; and when the now interested waiter said, respectfully, that he desired to close the room, they went out to the office, where the money was got out of the safe and the bill paid.
