Their water-bottle, although
they kept it always in the shade of some scorched tree or bush, grew
as warm as the air about it. Still Conniston drank great quantities of
the warm water until even it warred against him and made him sick. All
morning long he fought against a dull, throbbing headache. At noontime
he ate little, but sat still, with his bursting temples between his
hands.
Again the afternoon dragged on, unbearably long, each tortuous second
a slow period of agony. Lonesome Pete's stories of the range country
he heard, while he did not attempt to grasp their significance. They
no longer amused him. His own position, his own condition, no longer
amused him. He felt that he could not laugh; he knew that he would
not. He told himself over and over that he was a fool for attempting
drudgery like this. He vowed that when at last the day's work was done
he would go to Mr. Crawford and say, "I have worked off what I owe
you. I am going to quit." They could think what they chose. They could
laugh if it pleased them. His was a finer nature than theirs; he was a
gentleman, thank God, and no day-laborer.
And night came, and he ate what he could and dragged himself into his
bunk in silence. He saw the glances which were directed toward him
when he came into the bunk-house; he knew what the men were thinking.
He knew what they would say.
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