Clost to, I liked his looks. And from the jump, I seen one thing--they wasn't _no_ showin' off to him, and no extra dawg ('r he wouldn't 'a' come to a joint where meals is only two-bits). He was a book-writer, but when he talked he didn't use no ten-dollar-a-dozen words. And, in place of seegars, he smoked cigareets--and rolled 'em hisself with _one_ hand, by jingo! Wal, we had a nice, long parley-voo, me gittin' the hull sittywaytion as _re_gards his book, and tellin' him we'd shore lay ourselves out t' help him--if we didn't, it wouldn't be white; him, settin' down things ev'ry oncet in a while, 'r whittlin' a stick with one of them self-cockin' jackknives. We chinned fer the best part of a' hour. Then, he made me a proposition. This was it: "Mister Lloyd," he says, "I'd like t' have you with me all the time I'm down here,--that'll be three weeks, anyhow. You could _ex_plain things, and--and be a kinda bodyguard." "Why, my friend," I says, "_you_ don't need no bodyguard in Oklahomaw. But I'll be glad t' _ex_plain anythin' I can." "Course, I want t' pay you," he goes on; "'cause I'd be takin' you' time----" "I couldn't take no pay," I breaks in. "And if I was t' have to go, why any one of the bunch could help you just as good." "Let's talk business," he says. "I like you, and I don't _want_ you t' go. Now, what's you' time worth?" "I git forty a month." "Wal, that suits me. And you' job won't be a hard one." "Just as you say." So, then, we shook hands. But, a-course, I didn't swaller that bodyguard story,--I figgered that what he wanted was t' git in with the boys through me. Wal, when I got back t' the thirst-parlour, I acted like I was loco. "Boys! boys! _boys!_" I hollered, "I got a job!" And I give 'em all a whack on the back, and I done a jig. Pretty soon, I was calmer. Then, I says, "I ain't a-goin' t' ride fer Mulhall,--not _this_ month, anyhow. This liter'toor gent's hired me as his book foreman. As I understand it, they's some things he wants, and I'm to help corral 'em. He says that just now most folks seem t' be takin' a lot of interest in the West. He don't reckon the fashion'll keep up, but, a-course a book-writer has t' git on to the band-wagon. So, it's up t' me, boys, to give him what's got to be had 'fore the _ex_citement dies down." Hairoil come over t' me. "Cupid," he says, "the hull kit and boodle of us'll come in on this. We want t' help, that's the reason. We _owe_ it to y', Cupid." "Boys," I answers, "I appreciate what you mean, and I _ac_cept you' offer. Thank y'." "What does this feller want?" ast Sam. "Wal," I says, "he spoke a good bit about colour----" "They's shore colour at the Arnaz feed shop," puts in Monkey Mike; "--them strings of red peppers that the ole lady keeps hung on the walls. And we can git blue shirts over to Silverstein's." "No, Mike," I says, "that ain't the idear. Colour is _Briggs,_ and _us._"