Without his looking at me or slowing his pace, I found a five-dollar
bill crumpled neatly into my hand.

"I wouldn't have thought, Kansas Bill," I said, "that you'd hold an old
friend that cheap."

Then he turned his head, and the hickory-nut cracked into a wide smile.

"Give back the money," said he, "or I'll have the cop after you for
false pretenses. I thought you was the cop."

"I want to talk to you, Bill," I said. "When did you leave Oklahoma?
Where is Reddy McGill now? Why are you selling those impossible
contraptions on the street? How did your Big Horn gold-mine pan out? How
did you get so badly sunburned? What will you drink?"

"A year ago," answered Kansas Bill systematically. "Putting up windmills
in Arizona. For pin money to buy etceteras with. Salted. Been down in
the tropics. Beer."

We foregathered in a propitious place and became Elijahs, while a waiter
of dark plumage played the raven to perfection. Reminiscence needs must
be had before I could steer Bill into his epic mood.

"Yes," said he, "I mind the time Timoteo's rope broke on that cow's
horns while the calf was chasing you. You and that cow! I'd never forget
it."

"The tropics," said I, "are a broad territory. What part of Cancer of