"Helps him stand off trouble, don't it?" Racey hazarded, sympathetically, perceiving an opening.
"Shore does," answered Mr. Dale. "I should say so. Dunno who'd oughta know that better'n I do. Trouble, Racey—well, say, I'm just made of trouble I am."
"Aw, it ain't as bad as that," encouraged Racey.
"Yes, it is, too," contradicted the other. "I got more trouble on my hands than a rat-tailed hoss tied short in fly-time. Trouble—nothing but."
"Nothing is as bad as it looks."
"Heaps of times she's worse."
"I'm yore friend. You know me. If I can help you—"
"Nobody can help me. I dunno what to do, Racey."
"Well, you know best, I expect, but I've always found if I talk over with somebody else anythin' that bothers me it don't seem to stick up half so big."
Mr. Dale sank down upon one run-over heel and stared blearily off across the flats. The bottle in his hip-pocket made a pronounced bulge under the cloth.