“Like master, like man,” says the saw, and in this case truly, for the man Cunningham was exactly like the master Cunningham-sur-le-Chantay Seeche. No matter what his work was, he always managed to look as if he had just come from the wash--not that he was beautiful, but he was so chalky clean. His hair was clean, a peculiar no-color-at-all-cleanliness; his teeth were clean, and almost the size of piano-keys, when disclosed by his wide, good-natured smile; his eyes were pure white and pale blue. They showed behind the powerful lenses that corrected their myopia, like specimens of old china in a cabinet. They also had something of the trustfulness and instant claim for sympathy in their short-sighted stare that one often sees in children’s eyes. Cunningham was full six feet two in stature, bony and loosely put together. His legs were of such length that Billy Wykam’s remark, that, “if it wasn’t for his necktie, Cunny would be twins,” had more foundation in fact than most hyperbole. But his walking gait was the most remarkable thing about him physically. He took immense strides, swinging his arms to their full extent, in unison, while his head had a continuous pecking motion. Paul Falk, our intellectual giant, said that Cunningham in action looked like a demonstration of a transverse vibration, and at rest like Cunningham, and nothing else on this or any other planet. He was one mortally homely man, if ever there lived one, yet there was something high and striking in his long, big-nosed face, and a genial quality in his perfect manner that would win you to liking him at the first meeting and for ever after. His was the style of the true nobleman, and gained for him the respect of the hilarious crew among whom he lived, despite his oddities. Many a quiet kindly turn, so carefully contrived that he never guessed it was a kindness, he received from his neighbors; and for his part no man could have been more willing or useless. With an ax in his hand he was the most dangerous companion imaginable. He nearly brained two of the boys before they could think of an excuse to part him and his weapon without hurting his feelings, and when he started to help in an undertaking, not the least of the troubles of the others was to render him harmless. On one occasion Billy Wykam had a matter of twenty or thirty calves he wished to brand. Cunningham was in the corral, armed with a rope, intensely serious and businesslike. He tripped up almost everybody with the ropes; he “shooed” the wrong “critters” out of the corral, so that somebody had to take horses and chase them for miles over the prairie until they could be secured again; he roped Antelope Pete by mistake when the latter was flying down the corral towed by a powerful yearling, and gave Pete a fall that it would take years to blot out of the spectator’s memory; then in his zeal he hauled away on the rope, dragging his victim quite a distance before he could be stopped.