“Mr. Crawford ain’t strong for the scientific sharps since a college professor got him to drill a nice straight hole on Round Top plumb halfway to China,” drawled Bob with a grin.

“I suppose it’s a gamble,” agreed Sanders.

“Worse’n the cattle market, and no livin’ man can guess that,” said the owner of the D Bar Lazy R dogmatically.  “Bob, you better put Dave with the crew of that wildcat you’re spuddin’ in, don’t you reckon?”

“I’ll put him on afternoon tower in place of that fellow Scott.  I’ve been intendin’ to fire him soon as I could get a good man.”

“Much obliged to you both.  Hope you’ve found that good man,” said Sanders.

“We have.  Ain’t either of us worryin’ about that.”  With a quizzical smile Crawford raised a point that was in his mind.  “Say, son, you talk a heap more like a book than you used to.  You didn’t slip one over on us and go to college, did you?”

“I went to school in the penitentiary,” Dave said.

He had been immured in a place of furtive, obscene whisperings, but he had found there not only vice.  There was the chance of an education.  He had accepted it at first because he dared not let himself be idle in his spare time.  That way lay degeneration and the loss of his manhood.  He had studied under competent instructors English, mathematics, the Spanish grammar, and mechanical drawing, as well as surveying and stationary engineering.  He had read some of the world’s best literature.  He had waded through a good many histories.  If his education in books was lopsided, it was in some respects more thorough than that of many a college boy.

Dave did not explain all this.  He let his simple statement of fact stand without enlarging on it.  His life of late years had tended to make him reticent.

“Heard from Burns yet about that fishin’ job on Jackpot Number Three?” Bob asked Crawford.

“Only that he thinks he hooked the tools and lost ’em again.  Wisht you’d run out in the mo’nin’, son, and see what’s doin’.  I got to go out to the ranch.”

“I’ll drive out to-night and take Dave with me if he feels up to it.  Then we’ll know the foreman keeps humpin’.”

“Fine and dandy.”  The cattleman turned to Sanders.  “But I reckon you better stay right here and rest up.  Time enough for you to go to work when yore shoulder’s all right.”

“Won’t hurt me a bit to drive out with Bob.  This thing’s going to keep me awake anyhow.  I’d rather be outdoors.”

They drove out in the buckboard behind the half-broken colts.  The young broncos went out of town to a flying start.  They raced across the plain as hard as they could tear, the light rig swaying behind them as the wheels hit the high spots.  Not till they had worn out their first wild energy was conversation possible.

Bob told of his change of occupation.

“Started dressin’ tools on a wildcat test for Crawford two years ago when he first begun to plunge in oil.  Built derricks for a while.  Ran a drill.  Dug sump holes.  Shot a coupla wells.  Went in with a fellow on a star rig as pardner.  Went busted and took Crawford’s offer to be handy man for him.  Tha’s about all, except that I own stock in two-three dead ones and some that ain’t come to life yet.”