“That’s it! Easy come, easy go! Can’t spend your money fast enough in this town, eh? Those other boys don’t seem to have any difficulty, judging by what I’ve seen and heard. You men are all of the same stamp. You lack good sense. What you earn in one month, you guzzle and gamble away in half an hour. I suppose that’s being a cowboy!” Laramie recognized that in this ironical diatribe there might be a grain of truth. “As for ‘easy come,’ I dunno,” said he, out of memories of the thirty years’ wind and weather, round-up and trail. “But I’ve ree-formed. If I hadn’t, I’d take no such talk from _you_.” With that, for fear he might tarnish his new shield at once, he waddled on, red and resolute. * * * * * He discovered a seat in the chair-car; and having sat right there and slept right there so as to hold it and himself down, he arrived in the morning at Kansas City. He stumbled out upon the platform of this union station that clanged and buzzed, pent with energy. Now the vague city, meshing him about, lured his farther incursion. Somewhere there was the swell cafe, and the pulsing life, and the thee-ater, and the bed with sheets, and the nightshirt and the store clothes. And somewhere, he fully comprehended, there were seductive bars, welcoming such as he--a man off the range, with his pockets lined. People casually viewed him as he stood. They could not mistake him: the typical cow-man, veteran showing in every wrinkle of face and garb: a red-headed, sorrel-visaged, puzzled migrant from the land of chaps and saddle. As he stood blinking, those “brute” instincts surged within him again. Powerful thirsty he was--it had been a long time. Hungry, too! His money burned in his jeans. It clamored for air and action. His feet twitched. “Gee gosh!” quoth Laramie, scratching his thatch. “I got to do something. Mebbe I’d better eat a snack just to ca’m me down. ’Twont make no difference when I find the genuyine lay-out. It’ll give me strength to look careful, for the best’ll be none too good for me.” He wandered amid reverberant gates and corridors, and boiling crowds, and his nose and ears led him to the dining counter--to the warm aroma of food and the clatter of laden dishes. He sat upon a stool, awkwardly forking it with his crooked legs and his tipsy boots, and he shoved his hat back and squared before the menu. Over this he pondered, running it through with gnarled forefinger. * * * * * The titles mocked him. He seemed likely to starve in the midst of a strange plenty. “What’ll it be?” the waitress chided. “Oh, shucks!” Laramie murmured. “I’m an orphan on this range, miss,” he apologized. In his desperation he could think of but one sure bet. “Fetch me a platter o’ beef,” blurted Laramie. “Steak or roast?” “Make her steak,” bade Laramie, still playing safe. “That,” informed the waitress, “will take about fifteen minutes. It has to be cooked to order.”