No man of us chewed the new beef a proper number of times; he
swallowed intently and reached for more. It was rather like twenty
minutes for dinner at what our railway laureates call an eating house.
Lew Wee shuffled in bored nonchalance between range and table. It was an
old story to him.
The meal might have gone to a silent end, though moderating in pace; but
we had with us to-day--as a toastmaster will put it--the young
veterinary from Spokane. This made for talk after actual starvation had
been averted--fragmentary gossip of the great city; of neighbouring
ranches in the valley, where professional duty had called him; of
Adolph, our milk-strain Durham bull, whose indisposition had brought him
several times to Arrowhead; and then of Squat, our youngest cowboy, from
whose fair brow the intrepid veterinary, on his last previous visit, had
removed a sizable and embarrassing wen with what looked to me like a
pair of pruning shears.
The feat had excited much uncheerful comment among Squat's _confreres_,
bets being freely offered that he would be disfigured for life, even if
he survived; and what was the sense of monkeying with a thing like that
when you could pull your hat down over it? Of course you couldn't wear a
derby with it; but no one but a darned town dude would ever want to wear
a derby hat, anyway, and the trouble with Squat was, he wished to be
pretty.
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