of unbelievably long words nor the bantering ridicule of his fellows
could affect, the red-headed man sat at the table in the bunk-house
under the swinging-lamp and conned "Macbeth." Upon long rides across
the range he carried "Macbeth" in his hand, a diminutive and
unsatisfactory dictionary in his hip-pocket.

One day Conniston and Lonesome Pete were riding together upon some
range errand. Lonesome Pete was particularly interested in his study,
and Conniston asked him the question he had been upon the verge of
asking many times.

"How does it happen, Pete," he said, carelessly, "that you're getting
so interested in an education here of late?"

Pete did not answer with his usual alacrity. Conniston, looking at
him, about to repeat the question, thinking that it had been lost in
the thud of their horses' hoofs, was considerably amazed to see the
cowboy's face go as flaming a red as his hair.

"Look here, Con," Pete said, finally, his tone half belligerent, while
his eyes, usually so frank, refused to meet Conniston's amused regard,
"what I do an' why I do it ain't any other jasper's concern, is it?"

"Certainly not," answered Conniston, promptly. "Certainly not mine. I
didn't go to frolic into your personal business, Pete."

"I mean other jaspers, not you, Con," Pete continued, after they had
galloped on for a moment in silence. "You been helpin' me so's I don't
know how I'd 'a' made such fas' improvement without you. It's like
this: here I am, gittin' along first-rate, maybe, like the res' of the
boys, workin' steady, an' a few good hard iron dollars put away in a
sock. An' all the time with no more eddication than a wall-eyed,
year-ol' steer. An' some day, in case I might creep a ways off'n the
range, I ain't no more fit to herd with real folks than that same
steer is."

"You're figuring, then, on leaving the range? On going to a city to
live? To cut something of a dash in society? Is that it, Pete?"

Again Pete blushed.

"Git out, Con! You're joshin'! But what I says is so, an' you know it
as well's I do. Now, it's goin' on three months I'm down in
Rattlesnake Valley, where the Ol' Man's stringin' his chips on makin'
a big play. He's goin' to make a town down in that sand-pile or bust a
tug; I ain't sayin' which right now. Anyway, he's already got a school
down there, an' they make the kids go. I figgered it out, seein' as
them little freckle-nosed sons o' guns could learn readin' an' writin'
an' such-like,