"I've got to get off, next station.

Yuh want to remember, Bud, the Lazy Eight's your home from now on.

We'll make a cow-puncher of yuh in no time; you've got it in yuh, or yuh wouldn't look so much like your dad.

And you can write stories about us all yuh want--we won't kick.
The way I've got the summer planned out, you'll waller chin-deep in material; all yuh got to do is foller the Lazy Eight through till shipping time." Thurston had not intended learning to be a cow-puncher, or following the Lazy Eight or any other hieroglyphic through 'till shipping time--whenever that was.
But facing Hank Graves, he had not the heart to tell him so, or that he had planned to spend only a month--or six weeks at most--in the West, gathering local color and perhaps a plot or two?
and a few types.
Thurston was great on types.
The train slowed at a little station with a dismal red section house in the immediate background and a red-fronted saloon close beside.

"Here we are," cried Graves, "and I ain't sorry; only I wisht you was going to stop right now.