"A conceited fool and a snob! Lordy,
lordy, why didn't somebody tell me--and kick me? A snob--a d--d,
insufferable, conceited snob!"
Three weeks ago the things which Argyl Crawford had said to him would
have amused the very self-satisfied young man. A week later, when
something of the truth had begun to filter in dimly upon him, he would
have felt hurt, insulted. Now he was ready to go to her, to thank her,
to tell her that a fool was dead, that he hoped a man was being born.
"And I would right now," he muttered to himself, "only I suppose that
anything I said would sound like the braying of a jackass!"
The one thing which she had said to him which now returned with
ever-increasing significance was the reason, as she had explained it,
why he had been chosen to go with her to Rattlesnake Valley. Out of
the dozens of men who worked under Brayley's orders he was absolutely
the only one who could be spared from the day's work! Every other man
had a quicker eye, a stronger body, a firmer hand; every other man was
a better rider, a better herder, a better roper, a better all-round
man. When there was work that must be done, man's work, he was the one
who could be spared from it.
By nature headlong, when Greek Conniston went into a thing he was in
the habit of going deep into it. When he drove a new car he drove it
night and day and at top speed.
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