He was a man of great bulk, with a ruddy, merry face.
"Hello, Morton.

Let's have a drink," I replied.
"Gotta rustle home," he said.

"Young feller, I've a ranch to work." "Sell it to me, Morton." He laughed and said he wished he could.

His buckboard stood at the rail, the horses stamping impatiently.
"Cards must be runnin' lucky," he went on, with another hearty laugh.
"Can't kick on the luck.

But I'm afraid it will change.