"Yes, moved out of this tomb nearly thirty years ago. But he knew what it was like, and I presume he fancied I'd be good and safe down here, where there's absolutely nothing doing. Hence, here I am. Pity my woes." "Oh, well, perhaps you might stir up something around here, if you tried hard enough," said Hooker. "If you took an interest in baseball----" "What good would that do me, with your dearly-beloved friend, Roger Eliot, choosing his favorites for the team? Besides, I don't think I'd care to play if I could with a bunch that had a cow-puncher for a slab artist." "You've got a grudge against Grant. You don't like him." "Great discernment," laughed Rackliff, with a hollow cough that sent little puffs of smoke belching from his lips. "Confidentially, I'll own up that I'm not stuck on him." "I'm with you. I don't go around blowing about it, but I haven't any use for that specimen from the cow country." "He seems to be very popular, especially with the girls," murmured Rackliff. "Now there's only one girl in this town that strikes me as something outside the milkmaid class. Lela Barker is it--in italics. Still, I'm going to admit that I don't think her taste and discernment is all it should be. Of course, she's naturally grateful to Grant for that bath he took on her account, but that's no reason why she should hand me the frosty." "Oh, I begin to see," muttered Hooker, grinning a bit for the first time. "Jealous." "Don't make me laugh; I might crack my face. Jealous of a cattle puncher! Excuse me! All the same, it's a bit provoking to see people slobbering over him, especially the girls, the same as if he's made of the stuff found in heroes of fiction." "I think," said Hooker, "there's a bond of sympathy between us." CHAPTER IV. LEN ROBERTS OF BARVILLE. In front of the post office stood a boy with a faded pea-green cap, hung rakishly over one ear. He had a crooked nose, which looked as if some one had given it a violent twist to one side, and, perceiving Hooker approaching, he smiled a crooked smile, that gave his features the odd appearance of struggling desperately to pull his proboscis back into place. "Hello!" muttered Roy in surprise. "As I live, there's Len Roberts, of Barville! What's he doing here?" "Hi, there, Hooky!" called Roberts from the right-hand corner of his mouth. "How they coming? Ain't seen you since the last time. Any fun 'round this metropolitan burg?" "Howdy, Len," answered Roy. "What brought you over here, anyhow?" "The old man's nag and buggy. He came over to buy a horse from Abe Tuttle, and I asked him to fetch me along to lead or ride the critter back. He'n Tuttle are dickering now. Thought perhaps I might see somebody I knew if I hung 'round here."