Since when, I inquired of him, had his own company become such a shock to him?

“As to that,” replied Mr. McLean, a thought ruffled, “when a man expects lonesomeness he stands it like he stands anything else, of course.  But when he has figured on finding company—­say—­” he broke off (and vindictiveness sparkled in his eye)—­“when you’re lucky enough to catch yourself alone, why, I suppose yu’ just take a chair and chat to yourself for hours.—­You’ve not seen anything of Tommy?” he pursued with interest.

I had not; and forthwith Lin poured out to me the pent-up complaints and sociability with which he was bursting.  The foreman had sent him over here with a sackful of letters for the post, and to bring back the week’s mail for the ranch.  A day was gone now, and nothing for a man to do but sit and sit.  Tommy was overdue fifteen hours.  Well, you could have endured that, but the neighbors had all locked their cabins and gone to Buffalo.  It was circus week in Buffalo.  Had I ever considered the money there must be in the circus business?  Tommy had taken the outgoing letters early yesterday.  Nobody had kept him waiting.  By all rules he should have been back again last night.  Maybe the stage was late reaching Powder River, and Tommy had had to lay over for it.  Well, that would justify him.  Far more likely he had gone to the circus himself and taken the mail with him.  Tommy was no type of man for postmaster.  Except drawing the allowance his mother in the East gave him first of every month, he had never shown punctuality that Lin could remember.  Never had any second thoughts, and awful few first ones.  Told bigger lies than a small man ought, also.

“Has successes, though,” said I, wickedly.

“Huh!” went on Mr. McLean.  “Successes!  One ice-cream-soda success.  And she”—­Lin’s still wounded male pride made him plaintive—­“why, even that girl quit him, once she got the chance to appreciate how insignificant he was as compared with the size of his words.  No, sir.  Not one of ’em retains interest in Tommy.”

Lin was unsaddling and looking after my horse, just because he was glad to see me.  Since our first acquaintance, that memorable summer of Pitchstone Canyon when he had taken such good care of me and such bad care of himself, I had learned pretty well about horses and camp craft in general.  He was an entire boy then.  But he had been East since, East by a route of his own discovering—­and from his account of that journey it had proved, I think, a sort of spiritual experience.  And then the years of our friendship were beginning to roll up.  Manhood of the body he had always richly possessed; and now, whenever we met after a season’s absence and spoke those invariable words which all old friends upon this earth use to each other at meeting—­“You haven’t changed, you haven’t changed at all!”—­I would wonder if manhood had arrived in Lin’s boy soul.  And so to-day, while he attended to my horse and explained the nature of Tommy (a subject he dearly loved just now), I looked at him and took an intimate, superior pride in feeling how much more mature I was than he, after all.