When it was over to the last twang of a banjo string, Casey took off his hat, emptied into it what silver he had in his pockets and set the hat in the fireglow.
Without a word the cowboys followed his example, turning pockets inside out to prove they could give no more.
Casey spread his bed apart from the others that night, and lay for a long while smoking and looking up at the stars and dreaming again his dream; only now the golden-haired creature who leaned back upon the deep cushions of his speedy blue car, was not a vague bloodless vision, but a real person with nice teeth and a red-lipped smile, who called him Mister in a tone he thought like music.

Now his dream lady sang to him, talked to him,--I consider it rather pathetic that Casey's dream always halted just short of meal time, and that he never pictured her sitting across the table from him in some expensive cafe, although Casey was rather fond of cafe lights and music and service and food.
Next morning the glamor remained, although the lady was once more the unkempt woman of yesterday.

The three seemed to look upon Casey still as a godsend.

They had talked with some of the men and had decided to turn back to Vegas, which was a bigger town than Lund and therefore likely to produce better crowds.

They even contemplated a three-night stand, which would make possible some very urgent repairs to their car.