I asked.

Lute shook his head. "No," he admitted, "I ain't. Got any tobacco about
you? Dorindy hove my plug away yesterday. I left it back of the clock
and she found it and was mad--dustin' again, of course."

He took the pouch I handed him, filled his pipe and absently put the
pouch in his pocket.

"Got a match?" he asked. "Thanks. No, I ain't spoke to her about it,
though it's been on my mind for a long spell. I didn't know but you
might say somethin' to her along that line, Roscoe. 'Twouldn't sound so
personal, comin' from you. What do you think?"

I shook my head. "Dorinda wouldn't pay much attention to my ideas on
such subjects, I'm afraid," I answered. "She knows I'm not a regular
church-goer."

Lute was plainly disappointed. "Well," he said, with a sigh, "maybe
you're right. She does cal'late you're kind of heathen, though she hopes
you'll see the light some day. But, just the same," he added, "it's a
good argument. I tried it on the gang up to the post-office last night.
I says to 'em, says I, 'Work's all right. I believe in it. I'm a workin'
man, myself. But to work when you don't have to is wrong. Take Ros
Paine,' I says--"

"Why should you take me?" I interrupted, rather sharply.

"'Cause you're the best example I could think of. Everybody knows you
don't do no work. Shootin' and sailin' and fishin' ain't work, and