The Senator nodded.

"It is as obvious as all that, then?" queried Bartley.

"I wouldn't say that," stated the Senator carefully. "But after you
bumped into me, and then stepped into the agent, and then turned around
and took in my scenery, noticin' the set of my legs, I says to myself,
'painter-man or writer.' It was kind of in your eye. I figured you
wa'n't no painter-man when you looked at the oil paintin' over the bar.

"A painter-man would 'a' looked sad or said somethin', for that there
paintin' is the most gosh-awful picture of what a puncher might look
like after a cyclone had hit him. I took a painter-man in there once, to
get a drink. He took one look at that picture, and then he says, kind of
sorrowful: 'Is this the only place in town where they serve liquor?' I
told him it was. 'Let's go over and tackle the pump,' he says. But we
had our drink. I told him just to turn his back on that picture when he
took his."

"I might be anything but a writer," said Bartley.

"That's correct. But you ain't."

"You hit the nail on the head. However, I can't just follow your line of
reasoning it out."

"Easy. Elimination. Now a tourist, regular, stares at folks and things.
But a painter or writer he takes things in without starin'. There's some
difference. I knew you were a man who did things. It's in your eye."