"
Mr. Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in
upon him. "Mebby they was hard pushed an' wanted fresh cayuses," he
said. "A whole lot of people get hard pushed in this country. Anyhow,
we'll prospect th' boss."
They found the proprietor in his stocking feet, getting the
breakfast, and Mr. Cassidy regarded the preparations with open
approval. He counted the tin plates and found only three, and,
thinking that there would be more plates if there were others to feed,
glanced into the landlord's room. Not finding signs of other guests,
on whom to lay the blame for the loss of his horse, he began to ask
questions.
"Much trade?" He inquired solicitously.
"Yep," replied the landlord.
Mr. Cassidy looked at the three tins and wondered if there had ever
been any more with which to supply his trade. "Been out this morning?"
he pursued.
"Nope."
"Talks purty nigh as much as Buck," thought Mr. Cassidy, and then
said aloud, "Anybody else here?"
"Nope."
Mr. Cassidy lapsed into a painful and disgusted silence and his
friend tried his hand.
"Who owns a mosaic bronch, Chinee flag on th' near side, Skillet
brand?" asked Mr. Connors.
"Quien sabe?"
"Gosh, he can nearly keep still in two lingoes," thought Mr.
Cassidy.
"Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th' near eye,
Star Diamond brand, white stockin' on th' off front prop, with a habit
of scratchin' itself every other minute?" went on Mr.
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