"Well, I wouldn't advise you to go down there to the fair grounds and ask 'em that!"
"I was just thinkin' that if I had a horse I might try my hand."
Uncle Boley looked him over again, this time more carefully than at the first inventory.
Except for the shoes, he wasn't materially different from the general run of cowboys. He had the slender, pliant waist and lean hams of the saddleman; and long, strong arms, which looked as if they could swing and throw a lariat. Indeed, he wore the conventional hat of a cowboy, and the gray' laced flannel shirt. His trousers seemed to be a little odd, but that was, perhaps, on account of no boots. Boots to the knees make a great difference in a man's legs, as Uncle Boley knew.
"What kind of a job did you work at last?"
"I never had a job in my life, sir."
"I thought you said you was raised on a ranch?"
Uncle Boley looked at him sharply.
"My father's ranch."
Uncle Boley seemed to take a new and deep interest in his work. He pegged away for fully ten minutes with never a word, and scarcely a look in the direction of his doubtful customer. By pressure of habit he had taken up the waxed-end and put it in his mouth, and when he spoke, at length,
