Once settled, he began to make acquaintances.  Methodically, to the members of one ranch at a time, he sent invitations to dinner, and upon the appointed date he confronted his guests with a spectacle which made them all but doubt their identity, the like of which most of them had never even seen before.  Fancy a cowboy rancher, clad in flannel and leather, welcomed by a host and hostess in complete evening dress, ushered into a room which contained a carpet and a piano, and had lace curtains at the windows; seated later at a table covered with pure linen and set with real china and cut-glass.  The experience was like a dream to the visitor.  Temporarily, as in a dream, the evening would pass without conscious volition upon the latter’s part; and not until later, when he was at home, would the full significance of the experience assert itself, and his wonder and admiration find vent in words.  Then indeed would the fame of Scotty Baker, his wife, and little daughter, be heard in the land.

Early in his career, Scotty began to cultivate the impassive Rankin.  He fairly bombarded the big rancher with courtesies and invitations.  No holiday (and Scotty was an assiduous observer of holidays) was complete unless Rankin was present to help celebrate.  No improvement about the ranch was definitely undertaken until Rankin had expressed a favorable opinion concerning the project.  Gradually, so gradually that the big man himself did not realize the change, he fell under Scotty’s influence, and more and more frequently he was to be found headed toward the cosey Baker cottage.  Now, for a year or more, scarcely a Sunday had passed without one or the other of the men finding it possible to traverse the thirty miles intervening between them, to spend a few hours in each other’s company.

It was in pursuance of this laudable intention that on the second morning following Ben Blair’s adoption into the Box R Ranch—­a Sunday—­the Englishman hitched a team of his best blooded trotters to the antiquated phaeton, which was the only vehicle he possessed, and started across country at a lively clip.  Thus it came to pass that about two hours later, having tied his team at the barn and started for the ranch-house, the visitor saw squarely in his path upon the sunny south doorstep an object that made him pause and blink his near-sighted eyes.  Under the concentration of his vision, the object resolved itself into a small boy perched like a frog upon a rock, his fingers locked across his shins, his chin upon his knees.  For an instant the Englishman hesitated.  Courtesy was instinctive with him.

“Can you tell me whether Mr. Rankin is at home?” he asked.

The lad calmly disentangled himself and stood up.

“You mean the big man, sir?”

Again Scotty was guilty of a breach of etiquette.  He stared.

“Certainly,” he replied at last.

Ben Blair stepped out of the way.

“Yes, sir, he is.”