“Sounds rather grewsome,” said Roderick, smiling at Grant’s oddity of expression.
Arriving at the bunk house, they were soon seated around a big stove where a brisk fire was burning, for the air without was still sharp and the wind cutting and cold.
“I can offer you a pipe and some mighty fine tobacco,” said Roderick, pushing a tray toward him carrying a jar of tobacco and half-a-dozen cob pipes.
“Smells good,” commented Grant, as he accepted and began to fill one of the pipes.
“Well, tell me something about yourself, Grant. I supposed the attraction over here at the ranch was quite enough to make you brave snowstorms and snow-slides and thirty-foot snowdrifts.”
“Warfield,” said Grant, half seriously, between puffs at his pipe, “that is what I want to talk with you about. The inducement is sufficient for all you suggest. She is a wonder. Without any question, Dorothy Shields is the sweetest girl that ever lived.”
“Hold on,” smiled Roderick. “There may be others in the different parts of the world.”
“Is that so?” ejaculated Grant with a rising inflection, while his countenance suggested an interrogation point.
“No, I have no confessions to make,” rejoined Roderick, as he struck a match to light his pipe.
“Well, that’s just what is troubling me,” said Grant, still serious. “I was just wondering if anyone else had been browsing on my range over here at the Shields ranch while I have been penned up like a groundhog, getting out my weekly edition of the Dillon Doublejock, sometimes only fifty papers at an issue. Think of it!” And they both laughed at the ludicrous meagerness of such a circulation.