The Virginian’s entrance produced a slight silence. He had done wonders with the wash-trough, and he had somehow brushed his clothes. With all the roughness of his dress, he was now the neatest of us. He nodded to some of the other cow-boys, and began his meal in quiet. But silence is not the native element of the drummer. An average fish can go a longer time out of water than this breed can live without talking. One of them now looked across the table at the grave, flannel-shirted Virginian; he inspected, and came to the imprudent conclusion that he understood his man. “Good evening,” he said briskly. “Good evening,” said the Virginian. “Just come to town?” pursued the drummer. “Just come to town,” the Virginian suavely assented. “Cattle business jumping along?” inquired the drummer. “Oh, fair.” And the Virginian took some more corned beef. “Gets a move on your appetite, anyway,” suggested the drummer. The Virginian drank some coffee. Presently the pretty woman refilled his cup without his asking her. “Guess I’ve met you before,” the drummer stated next. The Virginian glanced at him for a brief moment. “Haven’t I, now? Ain’t I seen you somewhere? Look at me. You been in Chicago, ain’t you? You look at me well. Remember Ikey’s, don’t you?” “I don’t reckon I do.” “See, now! I knowed you’d been in Chicago. Four or five years ago. Or maybe it’s two years. Time’s nothing to me. But I never forget a face. Yes, sir. Him and me’s met at Ikey’s, all right.” This important point the drummer stated to all of us. We were called to witness how well he had proved old acquaintanceship. “Ain’t the world small, though!” he exclaimed complacently. “Meet a man once and you’re sure to run on to him again. That’s straight. That’s no bar-room josh.” And the drummer’s eye included us all in his confidence. I wondered if he had attained that high perfection when a man believes his own lies. The Virginian did not seem interested. He placidly attended to his food, while our landlady moved between dining room and kitchen, and the drummer expanded. “Yes, sir! Ikey’s over by the stock-yards, patronized by all cattle-men that know what’s what. That’s where. Maybe it’s three years. Time never was nothing to me. But faces! Why, I can’t quit ’em. Adults or children, male and female; onced I seen ’em I couldn’t lose one off my memory, not if you were to pay me bounty, five dollars a face. White men, that is. Can’t do nothing with niggers or Chinese. But you’re white, all right.” The drummer suddenly returned to the Virginian with this high compliment. The cow-puncher had taken out a pipe, and was slowly rubbing it. The compliment seemed to escape his attention, and the drummer went on. “I can tell a man when he’s white, put him at Ikey’s or out loose here in the sage-brush.” And he rolled a cigar across to the Virginian’s plate. “Selling them?” inquired the Virginian.