The droop-shouldered man waited humbly for the climax--which reached so
high a tension that the speaker rose upon his toes to deliver it, and
drew his right hand from his pocket to aid in the punctuation--when he
pulled his hat down on his head and slunk away.

It was while the orator was gazing contemptuously after him that he
heard Weary cheerfully asking for work. For Weary was a straight
guesser; he knew when he stood in the presence of the Great and Only.
The man wheeled and measured Weary slowly with his eyes--and there
being a good deal of Weary if you measured lengthwise, he consumed
several seconds doing it.

"Humph!" when the survey was over. "What do _you_ know about horses?"
His tone was colored still by the oration he had just delivered, and it
was not encouraging.

Weary looked down upon him and smiled indulgence of the tone. "If you
aren't busy right now, I'll start in and tell yuh. Yuh better sit down
on that bucket whilst I'm doing it--if I'm thorough it'll take time."

"Humph!" said the man again and carefully pared the end of a fat, black
cigar. "You seem to think you know it all. What's your trade?"

"Punching cows--in Northern Montana," answered Weary, mildly.

The man took the trouble to look at him again, this time more
critically--and more favorably, perhaps. "Bronco-buster?" he demanded,
briefly.

"Some," grinned Weary, his thoughts whirling back to the dust and