In a word Ronicky Doone was a dandy, but he had this peculiarity,
that he seemed to dress to please himself rather than the rest of the
world. His glances never roved about taking account of the admiration
of others. As he leaned there in the door of the hotel he was the type
of the young, happy, genuine and carefree fellow, whose mind is no
heavier with a thousand dollars or a thousand cents in his pocket.

Suddenly he started from his lounging place, caught his hat more
firmly over his eyes, threw away his unlighted cigarette and hurried
across the veranda of the hotel. Had he seen an enemy to chastise,
or an old friend to greet, or a pretty girl? No, it was only old Jud
Harding, the blacksmith, whose hand had lost its strength, but who
still worked iron as others mold putty, simply because he had the
genius for his craft. He was staggering now under a load of boards
which he had shouldered to carry to his shop. In a moment that load
was shifted to the shoulder of Ronicky Doone, and they went on down
the street, laughing and talking together until the load was dropped
on the floor of Harding's shop.

"And how's the sick feller coming?" asked Harding.

"Coming fine," answered Ronicky. "Couple of days and I'll have him out
for a little exercise. Lucky thing it was a clean wound and didn't
nick the bone. Soon as it's healed over he'll never know he was
plugged."

Harding considered his young friend with twinkling eyes. "Queer thing
to me," he said, "is how you and this gent Gregg have hit it off so
well together. Might almost say it was like you'd shot Gregg and now
was trying to make up for it. But, of course, that ain't the truth."