"Oh, I could tell yu'd been enjoyin' us!" said Scipic. "Observin' somebody else's scrape always kind o' rests me too. Maybe you're a philosopher, but maybe there's a pair of us drawd in this deal."
Approval now grew plain upon the face of the Virginian. "By your laigs," said he, "you are used to the saddle."
"I'd be called used to it, I expect."
"By your hands," said the Southerner, again, "you ain't roped many steers lately. Been cookin' or something?"
"Say," retorted Scipio, "tell my future some now. Draw a conclusion from my mouth."
"I'm right distressed," answered the gentle Southerner, "we've not a drop in the outfit."
"Oh, drink with me uptown!" cried Scipio. "I'm pleased to death with yu'."
The Virginian glanced where the saloons stood just behind the station, and shook his head.
"Why, it ain't a bit far to whiskey from here!" urged the other, plaintively. "Step down, now. Scipio le Moyne's my name. Yes, you're lookin' for my brass ear-rings. But there ain't no ear-rings on me. I've been white for a hundred years. Step down. I've a forty-dollar thirst."
"You're certainly white," began the Virginian. "But—"
Here the caboose resumed:
"I'm wild, and woolly, and full of fleas;
I'm hard to curry above the knees;
I'm a she-wolf from Bitter Creek, and
It's my night to ho-o-wl—"
And as they howled and stamped, the wheels of the caboose began to turn gently and to murmur.
