day was as much of a holiday as another to these easy-going fellows.
But The Duke, when I suggested a change in the day, simply raised his
eyebrows an eighth of an inch and said:

"Can't see why the day should be changed." Bruce stormed and swore all
sorts of destruction upon himself if he was going to change his style of
life for any man. The others followed The Duke's lead.

That Sunday was a day of incongruities. The Old and the New, the
East and the West, the reverential Past and iconoclastic Present were
jumbling themselves together in bewildering confusion. The baseball
match was played with much vigor and profanity. The expression on The
Pilot's face, as he stood watching for a while, was a curious mixture of
interest, surprise, doubt and pain. He was readjusting himself. He was
so made as to be extremely sensitive to his surroundings. He took on
color quickly. The utter indifference to the audacious disregard of all
he had hitherto considered sacred and essential was disconcerting. They
were all so dead sure. How did he know they were wrong? It was his first
near view of practical, living skepticism. Skepticism in a book did not
disturb him; he could put down words against it. But here it was alive,
cheerful, attractive, indeed fascinating; for these men in their western
garb and with their western swing had captured his imagination. He was
in a fierce struggle, and in a few minutes I saw him disappear into the
coulee.

Meantime the match went uproariously on to a finish, with the result
that the champions of "Home" had "to stand The Painkiller," their defeat
being due chiefly to the work of Hi and Bronco Bill as pitcher and
catcher.