with nice motters on them?" asked one, and
another flung a piece of information after the jolting wagon.

"There's a Swede down at Branker's wants a bottle that will limber up a
wooden leg," he said.

Sproatly grinned, and waved his hands to them before he turned to
Winifred.

"We have to get through before dark, if possible, or I'd stop and sell
them something sure," he said. "Parts of the trail further on are simply
horrible."

It occurred to Winifred that the road was far from good as it was, for
spouts of mud flew up beneath the sinking hoofs and wheels, and she was
already unpleasantly spattered.

"You think you would have succeeded making a sale?" she asked with
amusement in her eyes.

"Oh, yes," Sproatly answered confidently. "If I couldn't plant something
on to them when they'd given me a lead like that, I'd be no use in this
business. At present, my command of Western phraseology is my fortune."

"You sell things, then?"

Sproatly pointed to two big boxes in the bottom of the wagon. "Anything
from cough cure to hair restorer, besides a general purpose elixir
that's specially prepared for me. It's adaptable to any complaint and
season. All you have to do"--and he lowered his voice confidently--"is
to put on a different label."

Winifred laughed when she met his eyes.

"What happens to the people who buy it?" she inquired.

"Most of them are bachelors, and tough. They've stood their own cooking
so long that they ought to be impervious to anything, and if anybody's
really sick I hold off and tell him to wait until he can get a doctor. A
sensitive conscience," he added reflectively, "is quite a handicap in
this business."

"You have always been in it?" asked Winifred.

"No," replied Sproatly, "although you mightn't believe it, I was raised
with the idea that I should have my choice between the Church and the
Bar. The idea, however, proved--impracticable--which is rather a pity.
It has seemed to me that a man who can work off cough cures and
cosmetics on to healthy folks and talk a scoffer off the field, ought to
have made his mark in either calling."

He looked at her as if for confirmation of this view, but Winifred, who
laughed again, glanced at the two wagons that, several miles away, moved
across the gray-white sweep of prairie.

"Shall we overtake them?" she asked.

"We'll probably come up with Gregory. I'm not sure about Wyllard."

"He drives faster horses?"

"That's not quite the reas