buckboard and was squatting cross-legged in the sand, the lantern on
the ground at his side. And then, as he bent low over the things in
his hand, they saw that they were three books and that Lonesome Pete
was applying himself diligently to them.

He opened them all, one after the other, turned many pages, stopping
now and then to bend closer to look at a picture and decipher
painstakingly the legend inscribed under it. Finally, after perhaps
ten minutes of this kind of examination, he laid two of them beside
him, grasped the other firmly with both awkward hands and began to
read. They knew that he was reading, for now and again his droning
voice came to them as he struggled with a word of some difficulty.

Hapgood smoked his last cigarette; Conniston puffed at his pipe. At
the end of ten minutes Lonesome Pete had turned a page, the rustling
of the leaves accompanied by a deep sigh. Then he laid his book, open,
across his knee, made another cigarette, lighted it, and, after a
glance toward Conniston and Hapgood, spoke softly.

"You gents reads, I reckon? Huh?"

"Yes. A little," Conniston told him; while Hapgood, being somewhat
strengthened by his rest and his meal, grunted.

"After a man gets the swing of it, sorta, it ain't always such hard
work?"

"No, it isn't such hard work after a while."

Lonesome Pete nodded slowly and many times.