Taking his skis from a corner of the room, he sat down, laid them across his knees, and proceeded to grease them well from a can which he had brought into the room and had placed on the stove. While he worked, Peters came lumbering in.
Peters had donned a ragged sweater, whose collar came up around his ears. Over this was buttoned a faded and threadbare coat. His old-fashioned skates were under his arm. From beneath the rim of his moth-eaten fur cap his tow hair showed in a sort of fringe. The cap had ear flaps, with strings at their ends. The flaps were loose, and the strings fluttered as he moved his head. His shoes were of cowhide, strong and serviceable, but not at all ornamental. He had tied the bottoms of his trousers to his ankles with pieces of cord.
The contrast between Peters and Markham was very striking. So far as appearances went, Markham had it “on” Peters by about a hundred to one.
“I’m going, too, Nix,” observed Markham, laying his skis to one side. “I’ll go over the butte, and I’ve got a month’s pay that says I beat you into Roscommon.”
“Maybe you will,” returned Peters, starting for the outside door.
There was more bitterness in Peters’ heart. He believed he understood the situation. Markham had won the ski jump and the skating race, and now he wanted to round off his triumphs by being first to carry the news of the horse thieving to the sheriff. Markham was planning a spectacular bit of work, for Uncle Si Goddard incidentally. Mainly, he was thinking of the effect of his night’s success on Hesther Morton.
“Wait, Nixon!” called Mrs. Morton. “Essie has got some hot coffee ready, and you must have a cup before you leave.”
The rancher’s wife was the only one who ever gave much thought to Peters. She considered him now, when the consideration and confidence of the others seemed to center wholly in Markham.
“Much obliged, Mrs. Morton,” Peters answered, “but I don’t reckon I’ll take the time. You see,” he added, as he laid a hand on the doorknob, “it’s a case where every minute counts.”
Before the good woman could answer, the door had closed behind Peters. Markham pulled up his shoulders in a shrug as he lifted the cup of steaming coffee.