THE TENDER LINK
I
Several customers were gathered in Mark Wyndham’s store at the cross-roads. They were rough farmers, wearing jean clothing, slouch hats, and coarse, dusty brogans.
A stranger, a man of quite a different type, came in and sat down near the side door. At first the crowd gazed at him curiously, but after a while he seemed to pass out of their minds. When he had waited on all his customers, Mark approached the stranger.
“By hookey!” he exclaimed, pausing in astonishment, and then extending his hand, “as the Lord is my Maker, it’s Luke King! Who’d ever expect to see you turn up?”
“Yes; Luke King it will have to be, since you, like all the rest, won’t call me by my right name.”
Mark laughed apologetically. “Oh, I forgot you never could bear to be called by yore step-daddy’s name; but you wuz raised up with the King layout, an’ Laramore is not a easy word to handle. Well, I reckon you are follerin’ what you started—writin’ books?”
“Yes.”
“I ‘lowed you’d stick to it. I never seed a feller study harder an’ want to do a thing as bad.”