Jack and I were early about in the morning, intent upon making our prospecting arrangements. We asked a casual question of an early morning lounger at a livery stable--some of these fellows seemed to get up at daylight for the express purpose of lounging--and he flung his voice over his shoulder into the recesses of the barn. "Jake!" he called; "two guys here to see yuh." Jake was evidently feeding his horses, for we heard the rustle of hay and caught a whiff of its fragrance, but presently he came stumping down the main thoroughfare between the stalls. He was a short man with an over-developed waist line--quite the opposite of the lean and lanky Westerner our imaginations had been picturing. Although it was still early and there was a nip to the air of the first morning in May, he wore neither coat nor waistcoat nor collar nor tie, and the neckband of his shirt was unbuttoned and revealed a generous expanse of throat and chest. He had recently been clean shaven, and he chewed tobacco with great gusto; tiny streamlets of the seductive fluid wound their way through little creases in his flesh which seemed to have been cut for the purpose from the corners of his mouth to the bottom of his chin. "Well," he said, bringing his weight to a poise on his pudgy feet, and scrutinizing us closely through shrewd, half-closed eyes. "You fellows lookin' fer land?" "That's what," said Jack, who was already beginning to pick up some of the direct vernacular of the West. "We want a man who knows the country to show us about." "I'm your gazabo," said Jake, stuffing a fist in a trouser pocket and bringing forth a half-eaten plug of tobacco, from which he helped himself liberally. Then, evidently in sudden embarrassment over his bad manners, he exclaimed, "Pardon me; my mistake!" and extended the plug to Jack and me. We declined. "As I was sayin', I'm the original Kid McCoy when it comes to locatin' land," he continued, when satisfied that we really did not chew tobacco, and that there was no offence in our refusal. "I know every badger-hole from Estevan to Prince Albert. I know every patch of stink-weed from Arcola to Swift Current. I've druv this country till there ain't a coyote between Montana an' the Saskatch'wan river but knows the rattle o' my bone-shaker. You boys hit luck with your first throw--runnin' into me like this." Then, with a sharp squint through his half-closed eyes, and dropping his voice to a confidential note, "How much money you got?" "Enough," said Jack, "but none to waste. What are your rates?"