Hidden Water. Coolidge Dane

canny smile crept across his lips.

      “I used to be a white man, myself,” he said, “before I lost my soap. What’s the chance to git a bite of that bymeby?” He threw his hand out toward the pot of beef, which was sending out odors of a rich broth, flavored with onions and chili.

      Hardy looked at him again, little shrimp of a man that he was, and still with disapproval.

      “D’ye call that a white man’s way of entering another man’s house?” he inquired pointedly.

      “Well,” temporized Swope, and then he stopped. “A man in my line of business gits in a hurry once in a while,” he said lamely. “But I’m hungry, all right,” he remarked, sotto voce.

      “Yes,” said Hardy, “I’ve noticed it. But here––sit down and eat.”

      The sheepman accepted the dish of beef, dipped out a spoonful of beans, broke off a slab of bread, and began his meal forthwith, meanwhile looking at Hardy curiously.

      “What’s that you say you’ve noticed?” he inquired, and a quizzical smile lurked beneath his dripping mustache as he reached over and hefted the coffeepot.