Either they think my ranch is a reform school for poor
chinless Chester, that got led away by bad companions and can't say no,
or they think, like you said, that it's just a toy for the idle rich.
Show 'em a shoe factory or a steel works and they can understand it's a
business proposition; but a ranch--Shucks! They think I've done my day's
work when I ride out on a gentle horse and look pleased at the
landscape."
Again were we diverted. A dozen alien beeves fed upon the Arrowhead
preserves. Did I see that wattle brand--the jug-handle split? That was
the Timmins brand--old Safety First Timmins. There must be a break in
his fence at the upper end of the field. Made it himself likely.
Wouldn't she give the old penny-pincher hell if she had him here? She
would, indeed! Continuous muttering of a rugged character for half a
mile of jog trot.
Then again:
"Cousin Egbert got all fussed up in his mind about the name and always
called her Postle-nut. He don't seem to have a brain for such things.
But she didn't mind. I give her credit for that. She was fifty if she
was a day, but very, very blond; laboratory stuff, of course.
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