"You ain't sayin' you started out for the Half
Moon, which is close on a hundred mile, an' never took nothin' along
to chaw!"
Conniston nodded. The red-headed man stared at them a minute,
scratched his head, removing his hat to do so, and then burst out:
"Which I go on record sayin' folks all the way from Noo York has got
some funny ways of doin' business. Bein' as you've slipped me your
name, frien'ly like, stranger, I don't min' swappin' with you. It's
Pete, an' folks calls me Lonesome Pete, mos'ly. An' you can tell
anybody you see that Lonesome Pete, cow-puncher from the Half Moon,
has made up his min' at las' as how he ain't never goin' any nearer
Noo York than the devil drives him."
He scratched his head again, put on his hat, and reached once more for
his frying-pan.
CHAPTER IV
Lonesome Pete dragged from the buckboard a couple of much-worn quilts,
a careful examination of which hinted that they had once upon a time
been gay and gaudy with brilliant red and green patterns. Now they
were an astonishing congregation of lumps where the cotton had
succeeded in getting itself rolled into balls and of depressions where
the cotton had fled. Light and air had little difficulty in passing
through. Lonesome Pete jerked off the piece of rope which had held
them in a roll and flung them to the ground, directing toward Hapgood
a glance which was an invitation.
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