“Consolation prize be damned. There was no consolation prize.”
“Oh, yes, there was.”
“Not by a danged sight You’ve gone an’ done this, Warfield.”
“Well, I got the big money, and hasn’t the winner the right to give off a bit of it as a consolation prize? Just stuff that book in your pocket, Scotty, and may the hundred dollars soon roll up to a thousand, old fellow.”
“Great guns, but you’re powerful kind to me—all of you,” murmured the cowboy. There were tears in his eyes.
“And by the way, Scotty,” continued Roderick, talking gaily, “that reminds me, I’ve got to go across to Englehart’s store and take over that grand championship saddle he was showing in his window—Banker Buck Henry’s special prize, you remember. I had almost forgotten about it. Why, it’s mine—stamped leather, solid silver mounts, and all the gewgaw trimmings. How will I look riding the ranges with that sort of outfit?”
“You’ll look just grand,” exclaimed Scotty admiringly. “But you won’t use that on the range. It will be your courtin’ outfit.”
Scotty smiled wanly, while Roderick laughed in spite of himself. The invalid felt emboldened.
“Oh, she’s been over here every day during your absence,” he continued. “Gee, but she’s pretty, and she’s kind! And let me tell you somethin’ else. Barbara’s been a-visitin’ me too. Just think o’ that.”
“Ah, all the girls are good, Scotty—and Wyoming girls the best of all,” he added enthusiastically. There was safety in the general proposition.