“It sure is—­and Bill jest learnin’ to read.  He might ‘a’ spelled out a whole page afore mornin’.”

“I wa’n’t meanin’ Bill,” asserted Pete.

“Oh, you won’t bother Bill none.  He can’t hear you.  His off ear is full of mud.  Go on and say anything you like about him.”

Bill slowly laid down his book, stepped to his bunk, and drew his six-shooter from its holster.  He marched back to the table and laid the gun quite handy to him, and resumed his chair.

Bill Haskins was long-suffering—­but both Andy and Pete realized that it was high time to turn their bright particular talents in some other direction.  So they undressed and turned in.  They had been asleep an hour or two before Bill closed his book regretfully, picked up his gun, and walked to his bunk.  He stood for a moment gazing at Andy, and then turned to gaze at Pete.  Then he shook his head—­and a slow smile lighted his weathered face.  For despite defunct mountain lions, bent nails, and other sundries, Bill Haskins liked Andy and Pete—­and he knew if it came to a test of friendship that either of them would stand by him to the last dollar, or the last shot even, as he would have gladly done to help them.

CHAPTER XLVI

THE RIDIN’ KID FROM POWDER RIVER

The first thing Pete did when he arrived in Tucson was to purchase a suit as near like that which he had seen Andover wear as possible.  Pete’s Stetson was discarded for a soft felt of ordinary dimensions.  He bought shoes, socks, and some underwear, which the storekeeper assured him was the latest thing, but which Pete said “looked more like chicken-wire than honest-to-Gosh cloth,” and fortified by his new and inconspicuous apparel, he called on the principal of the high school and told him just why he had come to Tucson.  “And I’d sure look queer settin’ in with all the kids,” Pete concluded.  “If there’s any way of my ketchin’ up to my size, why, I reckon I kin pay.”

The principal thought it might be arranged.  For instance, he would be glad to give Pete—­he said Mr. Annersley—­an introduction to an instructor, a young Eastern scholar, who could possibly spare three or four evenings a week for private lessons.  Progress would depend entirely upon Pete’s efforts.  Many young men had studied that way—­some of them even without instruction.  Henry Clay, for instance, and Lincoln.  And was Mr. Annersley thinking of continuing with his studies and entering college, or did he merely wish to become conversant with the fundamentals?

“If I kin git so I can throw and hog-tie some of them fundamentals without losin’ my rope, I reckon I’ll be doin’ all I set out to do.  No—­I guess I’d never make a top-hand, ridin’ for you.  But my rope is tied to the horn—­and I sure aim to stay with whatever I git my loop on.”

“I get your drift—­and I admire your purpose.  Incidentally and speaking from a distinctly impersonal—­er—­viewpoint” (no doubt a high-school principal may speak from a viewpoint, or even sit on one if he cares to), “your colloquialisms are delightful—­and sufficiently forceful to leave no doubt as to your sincerity of purpose.”