The Virginian did not seem interested. He placidly attended to
his food, while our landlady moved between dining room and
kitchen, and the drummer expanded.

"Yes, sir! Ikey's over by the stock-yards, patronized by all
cattlemen that know what's what. That's where. Maybe it's three
years. Time never was nothing to me. But faces! Why, I can't quit
'em. Adults or children, male and female; onced I seen 'em I
couldn't lose one off my memory, not if you were to pay me
bounty, five dollars a face. White men, that is. Can't do nothing
with niggers or Chinese. But you're white, all right." The
drummer suddenly returned to the Virginian with this high
compliment. The cow-puncher had taken out a pipe, and was slowly
rubbing it. The compliment seemed to escape his attention, and
the drummer went on.

"I can tell a man when he's white, put him at Ikey's or out loose
here in the sage-brush." And he rolled a cigar across to the
Virginian's plate.

"Selling them?" inquired the Virginian.

"Solid goods, my friend. Havana wrappers, the biggest tobacco
proposition for five cents got out yet. Take it, try it, light
it, watch it burn. Here." And he held out a bunch of matches.

The Virginian tossed a five-cent piece over to him.

"Oh, no, my friend! Not from you! Not after Ikey's. I don't
forget you. See? I knowed your face right away. See? That's