The breakfast steak and the before-breakfast dram were the established formula in Pawnee Bend. Gentlemen who went out for the early nip ambled on to the butcher's and brought home the breakfast steak. When the wives of Pawnee Bend put the skillets on in the morning, the atmosphere of the town was blue with the smoke of beef that had been care-free steer the night before.
Dunham felt like a sluggard when he went down stairs, for the sun was high. All his years he had been accustomed to a generous handicap in his daily race with the sun. MacKinnon was on duty, ready to collect from guests as they came clumping on high bootheels down his resounding stairs. He eyed Dunham's overstuffed suitcase with approval.
MacKinnon said he was glad reason had prevailed against the stubborn spirit of youth. The more territory a man left behind him in life's travels the farther he could see ahead. He was greatly relieved that Will-ium had taken an old fool's advice—he was not a day over fifty—and decided to journey on. Yes, he would keep the suitcase there, and send it along when Bill supplied the address.
After putting away the liberal portion of breakfast steak they cut for a man in Pawnee Bend in those days, Dunham settled with MacKinnon and said good-by. MacKinnon asked no questions on his destination or intentions, but seemed under a nervous anxiety to have him gone.
It was then about seven o'clock, which seemed to Dunham a very late hour for making a start. He
