"What was I to think, finding them that way?" Whitey retorted. "And they
don't look very good to me yet."

"Clothin' is only skin deep," said Bill.

Whitey felt called on to justify his alarm. "It's not only their
clothes," he said, "but their looks. You noticed that Bull didn't like
them, and you know dogs have true instinct about judging people."

"Let me tell you somethin' about dogs," began Bill, who usually was
willing to tell Whitey, or anybody else, something about anything. "Dogs
is supposed to be democratic, but they ain't. They don't like shabby
men. I'm purty fond of dogs, but they got one fault--they're snobs. They
don't like shabby men," Bill repeated for emphasis.

As Whitey thought of this he remembered that the dogs he had known had
this failing, if it was a failing. He also tried to think of some reason
for it, so he could prove that Bill was wrong, but he couldn't. That is,
he couldn't think of anything until Bill had gone away and it was too
late. Then it occurred to him that it was only the dogs that belonged to
the well-dressed that disliked the poorly dressed. That a shabby man's
dog loved him just as well as though he wore purple and fine linen,
whatever that was. Whitey looked around for Bill to confound him with
this truth, but Bill had disappeared--a way he had of doing the moment
he got the better of an argument.

If the two men were aching to work, they had not long to suffer; Bill
Jordan soon found occupation for them. Slim, the negro cook, had been
taken with a "misery" in his side, and Ham was installed in his place.
And to do Ham justice he was not such a bad cook. The ranch hands