exertions, as many and many a man in the Three B's could testify. He was
ashamed of his fat. Imagine the soul of a Bald Eagle in the body of a
Poland China sow and you begin to have some idea of Fatty Matthews. Fat
filled his boots as with water and he made a "squnching" sound when he
walked; fat rolled along his jowls; fat made his very forehead flabby;
fat almost buried his eyes. But nothing could conceal the hawk-line of
his nose or the gleam of those half-buried eyes. His hair was
short-cropped, grey, and stood on end like bristles, and he was in the
habit of using his panting breath in humming--for that concealed the
puffing. So Fatty Matthews came through the doors and his little,
concealed eyes darted from face to face. Then he kneeled beside Strann.

He was humming as he opened Jerry's shirt; he was humming as he pulled
from his bag--for Fatty was almost as much doctor as he was marshal,
cowpuncher, miner, and gambler--a roll of cotton and another roll of
bandages. The crowd grouped around him, fascinated, and at his
directions some of them brought water and others raised and turned the
body while the marshal made the bandages; Jerry Strann was unconscious.
Fatty Matthews began to intersperse talk in his humming.

"You was plugged from in front--my beauty--was you?" grunted Fatty, and
then running the roll of bandage around the wounded man's chest he
hummed a bar of:

_"Sweet Adeline, my Adeline,
At night, dear heart, for you I pine."_

"Was Jerry lookin' the other way when he was spotted?" asked Fatty of
the bystanders. "O'Brien, you seen it?"