“How much are them sinkers?” he demanded. “Doughnuts? Two for a nickel.” “Gimme a dozen and keep the change,” directed Laramie. And he parted with his remaining fifty cents. Toting away the sack, at last he felt like himself--busted. He swaggered through the station outskirts and into the yards; and at a string of empty stock-cars finally found a brakeman whom he knew. * * * * * The 77 was at the tail-end of loading when he appeared, tousled and redeyed from journey by freight, at the camp near town--he having hopped off, convenient. “It’s Laramie! Whoopee! Thought you were in Kansas City.” “So I was,” said Laramie; and he took mental note of the ravages of time in that period of his absence. All the outfit had not come to yet. “Howdy, Tex? Need a hand?” Tex faced him. “By jiminy! Out by passenger, back by freight! Or did you _walk_! Busted, I’ll bet.” “You win,” granted Laramie. “What was it this time special? Liquor, cards or women?” “Well, this time it was women,” Laramie confessed, shamed. “I knowed it!” Tex vowed disgustedly. “I wont ask you where you’ve been or what you’ve done. No use. Shore, you’ve a job. Your stuff is just as you left it. Oh, heck!” groaned Tex, lapsing into the lingo. “You fellers never l’arn nothin’. Easy come, easy go. You ought to wear that for your brand.” “Yep,” said Laramie, humble and crimson. “I never did have no sense. I’m a shore brute. What hawss do I ride ag’in, fust?” [Transcriber's Note: This story appeared in the June 1924 edition of The Blue Book Magazine.]