with me sometimes, without appearing to suffer any great pain, but Frosty
was always the star actor when the curtain rose on a bronco-breaking act.
As for the rest, they made it plain that I did _not_ belong to their set,
and I wasn't sending them my At Home cards, either. We were as haughty
with each other as two society matrons when each aspires to be called
leader.

Then a blizzard that lasted five days came ripping down over that
desolation, and everybody stuck close to shelter, and amused themselves as
they could. The cowboys played cards most of the time--seven-up, or
pitch, or poker; they didn't ask me to take a hand, though; I fancy they
were under the impression that I didn't know how to play.

I never was much for reading; it's too slow and tame. I'd much rather get
out and _live_ the story I like best. And there was nothing to read,
anyway. I went rummaging in my trunks, and in the bottom of one I came
across a punching-bag and a set of gloves. Right there I took off my hat
to Rankin, and begged his pardon for the unflattering names he'd been in
the habit of hearing from me. I carried the things down and put up the bag
in an empty room at one end of the bunk-house, and got busy.

Frosty Miller came first to see what was up, and I got him to put on the
gloves for awhile; he knew something of the manly art, I discovered, and
we went at it fast and furious. I think I broke up a game in the next
room. The boys came to the door, one by one, and stood watching, until we
had the full dozen for audience. Before any one realized what was
happening, we were playing together real pretty, with the chilly shoulder
barred and the social ice gone the way of a dew-drop in the sun.

We boxed and wrestled, with much scientific discussion of "full Nelsons"