there so that he might study his subject. That sounded very
well, to himself, but to Hank Graves, for some reason, it seemed
very funny. When Thurston told him, Hank was taken with a fit
of strangling that turned his face a dark purple. Afterward he
explained brokenly that something had got down his Sunday
throat--and Thurston, who had never heard of a man's Sunday
throat, eyed him with suspicion. Hank blinked at him with tears
still in his quizzical eyes and slapped him on the back, after
the way of the West--and any other enlightened country where men
are not too dignified to be their real selves--and drawled, in a
way peculiar to himself:

"That's all right, Bud. You stay right here as long as yuh want
to. I don't blame yuh--if I was you I'd want to spend a lot uh
time studying this particular brand uh female girl myself.

She's out uh sight, Bud--and I don't believe any uh the boys has
got his loop on her so far; though I could name a dozen or so
that would be tickled to death if they had. You just go right
ahead and file your little, old claim--"

"You're getting things mixed," Thurston interrupted, rather
testily. "I'm not in love with her. I, well, it's like this: if
you were going to paint a picture of those mountains off there,
you'd want to be where you could look at them-- wouldn't you? You
wouldn't necessarily want to--to own them, just because you felt
they'd make a fine picture. Your interest would be, er, entirely
impersonal."

"Uh-huh," Hank agreed, his keen eyes searching Phil's face