bber, from her chair
under the live-oak, where she was comfortably seated with a paper-back
volume for company.

"It balances perfeckly, Marthy," answered Sam, with a suspicious
pleasantness in his tone. "At first I was about ter be a little
reckless and kick 'cause ther buttons was all off, but since I diskiver
that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn't go so fur as
to say the buttons is any loss to speak of."

"Oh, well," said his wife, carelessly, "put on your necktie--that'll
keep it together."

Sam Webber's sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the
country between the Nueces and the Frio. The ranch house--a two-room
box structure--was on the rise of a gently swelling hill in the midst
of a wilderness of high chaparral. In front of it was a small clearing
where stood the sheep pens, shearing shed, and wool house. Only a few
feet back of it began the thorny jungle.

Sam was going to ride over to the Chapman ranch to see about buying
some more improved merino rams. At length he came out, ready for his
ride. This being a business trip of some importance, and the Chapman
ranch being almost a small town in population and size, Sam had decided
to "dress up" accordingly. The result was that he had transformed
himself from a graceful, picturesque frontiersman into something much
less pleasing to the sight. The tight white collar awkwardly
constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck. The buttonless shirt
bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest. The suit of
"ready-made" effectually concealed the fine lines of his straight,
athletic figure. His berry-brown face was set to the melancholy
dignity befitting a prisoner of state. He gave Randy, his
three-year-old son, a pat on the head, and hurried out to where Mexico,
his favorite saddle horse, was standing.

Marthy, leisurely rocking in her chair, fixed her place in the book
with her finger, and turned her head, smiling mischievously as she
noted the havoc Sam had wrought with his appearance in trying to "fix
up."

"Well, ef I must say it, Sam," she drawled, "you look jest like one of
them hayseeds in the picture papers, 'stead of a free and independent
sheepman of the State o' Texas."

Sam climbed awkwardly into the saddle.

"You're the one ought to be 'shamed to say so," he replied hotly.
"'Stead of 'tendin' to a man's clothes you're al'ays setting around
a-readin' them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils."

"Oh, shet u