Another box nailed against the wall behind the table served as book case and paper rack, holding, among a scant array of ancient standard volumes, a few dog-eared paper-backed books of cheap and dreadful sort, some illustrated journals showing pictures of actresses and film celebrities--precisely the sort of literature which may be found in most wilderness bachelor homes.
At one end of the up-turned box which served as a sort of reading table lay a pile of similar magazines, not of abundant folios, but apparently valued, for they showed more care than any other of the owner's treasures.

It was, curiously enough, to this little heap of literature that Wid Gardner presently turned.
Forgetful of the hour and of his waiting cows, he sat down, a copy in his hands, his face taking on a new sort of light as he read.

At times, as lone men will, he broke out into audible soliloquy.

Now and again his hand slapped his knee, his eye kindled, he grinned.

The pages were ill-printed, showing many paragraphs, apparently of advertising nature, in fine type, sometimes marked with display lines.
Wid turned page after page, grunting as he did so, until at last he tossed the magazine upon the top of the box and so went about his evening chores.