like nest-eggs, Logan, an' you set over 'em like a hen.
They look like eggs; they feel like eggs; but they don't never hatch.
That's the way with your ideas. They look all right; they sound all
right; but they don't mean nothin'. So-long."

But Logan merely chuckled wisely. He had been long on the range.

As Nash turned his pony and trotted off in the direction of the A
Circle Y ranch, the sheepherder called after him: "What you say cuts
both ways, Steve. This feller Bard looks like a tenderfoot; he sounds
like a tenderfoot; but he ain't a tenderfoot."

Feeling that this parting shot gave him the honours of the meeting, he
turned away whistling with such spirit that one of his dogs,
overhearing, stood still and gazed at his master with his head cocked
wisely to one side.

His eastern course Nash pursued for a mile or more, and then swung sharp
to the south. He was weary, like his horse, and he made no attempt to
start a sudden burst of speed. He let the pony go on at the same
tireless jog, clinging like a bulldog to the trail.

About midday he sighted a small house cuddled into a hollow of the hills
and made toward it. As he dismounted, a tow-headed, spindling boy
lounged out of the doorway and stood with his hands shoved carelessly
into his little overall pockets.

"Hello, young feller."

"'Lo, stranger."

"What's the chance of bunking here for three or four hours and gettin' a
good feed for the hoss?"

"Never better. Gimme the hoss; I'll put him up in the shed. Feed him
grain?"

"No, you won't put him up. I'll tend to that."

"Looks like a bad 'un."

"That's it."

"But a sure goer, eh?"

"Yep."

He led the pony to the shed, unsaddled him, and gave him a small feed.
The horse first rolled on the dirt floor and then started methodically
on his fodder. Having made sure that his mount was not "off his feed,"
Nash rolled a cigarette and strolled back to the house with the boy.

"Where's the folks?" he asked.

"Ma's sick, a little, and didn't get up to-day. Pa's down to the corral,
cussing mad. But I can cook you up some chow."

"All right son. I got a dollar here that'll buy you a pretty good store
knife."

The boy flushed so red that by contrast his straw coloured hair seemed
positively white.

"Maybe you want to pay me?" he suggested fiercely. "Maybe you think
we're squatters that run a hotel?"

Recognizing the true Western breed even in this small edition, Nash
grinned.

"Speakin' man to