But I'm damned if I don't feel as if you was like that
measly old 19--jest fit to be jacked up to saw wood with."
While Gun was in California, I was taken home on a requisition from my
wife, and Oscar Gunderson and his little girl became a memory--a page in
a book that I had partly read and lost, but not entirely forgotten.
One day last summer I took the westbound express at Topeka, and
spreading my grip, hat, coat and umbrella, out on the seats, so as to
resemble an experienced English tourist, I fished up a Wheeling stogie
and a book and went into the smoking-pen of the sleeper, which I had all
to myself for half-an-hour.
The train stopped to give the thirsty tender a drink and a man came in
to wash his hands. He had been riding on the engine.
After washing, he stepped to the door of the "smokery," struck a match
on the leg of his pants, held both hands around the end of his cigar
while he lighted it, then waving the match to put it out, he threw it
down and came in.
While he was absorbed in all this, I took a glance at him.
Six-foot-four, if an inch; high cheek bones; yellow beard; clear, blue
eyes; white skin, and a hand about the size of a Cincinnati ham.
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