“Phil Ralston!”
“Ah, yes! Mister Phil–––”
“Just plain Phil!”
“Phil––yes, excuse me! You know, I came out to this bally country on false pretences, as it were. Oh,––the country’s all right! Don’t misunderstand me. It’s a regular ripper, but, damme, I got done, you know.”
The soup came along, and DeRue Hannington fumbled for his monocle but suddenly seemed to remember that it was no longer a part of him. He blundered awkwardly a while, as if he had suddenly been deprived of one of his active members.
“It’s this way, Mister, eh, Phil. The guv’nor thought I was going the pace too hard and becoming a bally rotter, so he said I had to go out West and be a rawncher. He said it just like that,––as if being a rawncher was as easy as being a rotter.
“Are you a rawncher?”
“No! It takes money to be that.”
“You’re a foreman, or a cowboy, or something?”
“No,––I’m not anything yet,” smiled Phil. “I’m just starting in. I’ve lately finished my college training.”