“You ain’t yourself, Sam Telfair. You ain’t what you was once. I don’t know about these cities and flats over here. With my own eyes I seen you stand off both the Tillotson boys in Prairie View with the brass faucet out of a molasses barrel. And I seen you rope and tie the wildest steer on Little Powder in 39 1-2.” “I did, didn’t I?” said the other, with a temporary gleam in his eye. “But that was before I was dogmatized.” “Does Misses Telfair—” began Jim. “Hush!” said the dogman. “Here’s another café.” They lined up at the bar. The dog fell asleep at their feet. “Whiskey,” said Jim. “Make it two,” said the dogman. “I thought about you,” said Jim, “when I bought that wild land. I wished you was out there to help me with the stock.” “Last Tuesday,” said the dogman, “he bit me on the ankle because I asked for cream in my coffee. He always gets the cream.” “You’d like Prairie View now,” said Jim. “The boys from the round-ups for fifty miles around ride in there. One corner of my pasture is in sixteen miles of the town. There’s a straight forty miles of wire on one side of it.” “You pass through the kitchen to get to the bedroom,” said the dogman, “and you pass through the parlour to get to the bath room, and you back out through the dining-room to get into the bedroom so you can turn around and leave by the kitchen. And he snores and barks in his sleep, and I have to smoke in the park on account of his asthma.” “Don’t Missis Telfair—” began Jim. “Oh, shut up!” said the dogman. “What is it this time?” “Whiskey,” said Jim. “Make it two,” said the dogman. “Well, I’ll be racking along down toward the ferry,” said the other. “Come on, there, you mangy, turtle-backed, snake-headed, bench-legged ton-and-a-half of soap-grease!” shouted the dogman, with a new note in his voice and a new hand on the leash. The dog scrambled after them, with an angry whine at such unusual language from his guardian. At the foot of Twenty-third Street the dogman led the way through swinging doors. “Last chance,” said he. “Speak up.” “Whiskey,” said Jim. “Make it two,” said the dogman. “I don’t know,” said the ranchman, “where I’ll find the man I want to take charge of the Little Powder outfit. I want somebody I know something about. Finest stretch of prairie and timber you ever squinted your eye over, Sam. Now if you was—” “Speaking of hydrophobia,” said the dogman, “the other night he chewed a piece out of my leg because I knocked a fly off of Marcella’s arm. ‘It ought to be cauterized,’ says Marcella, and I was thinking so myself. I telephones for the doctor, and when he comes Marcella says to me: ‘Help me hold the poor dear while the doctor fixes his mouth. Oh, I hope he got no virus on any of his toofies when he bit you.’ Now what do you think of that?” “Does Missis Telfair—” began Jim. “Oh, drop it,” said the dogman. “Come again!” “Whiskey,” said Jim. “Make it two,” said the dogman.