Morton was a square heavy-fleshed young man with stubby hands,
who, up to his eyes, was stolid and solid as a granite monument,
but merry of eye and hinting friendliness in his tousled
soft-brown hair. He was always wielding a pipe and artfully
blowing smoke through his nostrils.

Mr. Wrenn and he smiled at each other searchingly as the
Portland boat pulled out, and a wind swept straight from the
Land of Elsewhere.

After dinner Morton, smoking a pipe shaped somewhat like a
golf-stick head and somewhat like a toad, at the rail of the
steamer, turned to Mr. Wrenn with:

"Classy bunch of cattlemen we've got to go with. Not!... My
name's Morton."

"I'm awful glad to meet you, Mr. Morton. My name's Wrenn."

"Glad to be off at last, ain't you?"

"Golly! I should say I _am!_"

"So'm I. Been waiting for this for years. I'm a clerk for the
P. R. R. in N' York."

"I come from New York, too."

"So? Lived there long?"