But of course we had to look out or we'd lose our hair, and many a cowboy has won out to the home ranch in an almighty exciting race.

This was nuts for the Honourable Timothy Clare, much better than hunting silver-tips, and he enjoyed it no limit.
Things went along that way for some time, until one evening as I was turning out the horses a buckboard drew in, and from it descended Tony Briggs and a dapper little fellow dressed all in black and with a plug hat.
"Which I accounts for said hat reachin' the ranch, because it's Friday and the boys not in town," Tony whispered to me.
As I happened to be the only man in sight, the stranger addressed me.
"I am looking," said he in a peculiar, sing-song manner I have since learned to be English, "for the Honourable Timothy Clare.

Is he here ?" "Oh, you're looking for him are you ?" said I.

"And who might you be ?" You see, I liked Tim, and I didn't intend to deliver him over into trouble.
The man picked a pair of eye-glasses off his stomach where they dangled at the end of a chain, perched them on his nose, and stared me over.

I must have looked uncompromising, for after a few seconds he abruptly wrinkled his nose so that the glasses fell promptly to his stomach again, felt his waistcoat pocket, and produced a card.