Thurston had not intended getting out and actually living the
life he had come to observe, but something got in his nerves and
his blood and bred an impulse to which he yielded without
reserve. "Park, see here," he said eagerly. "Graves said he'd
turn me over to you, so you could--er-- teach me wisdom. It's
deuced rough on you, but I hope you won't refuse to be bothered
with me. I want to learn-- everything. And I want you to find
fault like the mischief, and--er--knock me into shape, if it's
possible." He was very modest over his ignorance, and his voice
rang true.

Park studied him gravely. "Bud," he said at last, "you'll do.
You're greener right now than a blue-joint meadow in June, but
yuh got the right stuff in yuh, and it's a go with me. You come
along with us after that trail-herd, and you'll get knocked into
shape fast enough. Smoke?"

Thurston shook his head. "Not those."

"I dunno I'm afraid yuh can't be the real thing unless yuh fan
your lungs with cigarette smoke regular." The twinkle belied
him, though. "Say, where did you pick them bloomers?"

"They were made in New York." Thurston smiled in sickly fashion.
He had all along been uncomfortably aware of the sharp contrast
between his own modish attire and the somewhat disreputable
leathern chaps of his host's foreman.

"Well," commented Park, "you told me to find fault like the