Finally, after perhaps
ten minutes of this kind of examination, he laid two of them beside
him, grasped the other firmly with both awkward hands and began to
read. They knew that he was reading, for now and again his droning
voice came to them as he struggled with a word of some difficulty.
Hapgood smoked his last cigarette; Conniston puffed at his pipe. At
the end of ten minutes Lonesome Pete had turned a page, the rustling
of the leaves accompanied by a deep sigh. Then he laid his book, open,
across his knee, made another cigarette, lighted it, and, after a
glance toward Conniston and Hapgood, spoke softly.
"You gents reads, I reckon? Huh?"
"Yes. A little," Conniston told him; while Hapgood, being somewhat
strengthened by his rest and his meal, grunted.
"After a man gets the swing of it, sorta, it ain't always such hard
work?"
"No, it isn't such hard work after a while."
Lonesome Pete nodded slowly and many times.
"It's jest like anything else, ain't it, when you get used to it? Jest
as easy as ropin' a cow brute or ridin' a bronco hoss?"
Conniston told him that he was right.
"But what gits me," Lonesome Pete went on, closing his book and
marking the place with a big thumb, "is knowin' words that comes
stampedin' in on you onexpected like. When a man sees a cow brute or
a hoss or a mule as he ain't never clapped his peepers on he knows the
brute right away.
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