"Hey, Win, wake up," he whispered as the man regarded him through a
pair of sleepy eyes. "Come on with me. I got somethin' to show you."
Tex led the way to the war-bag. "Them clothes of yourn is plum
despisable to look at," he imparted, "so I borrowed an outfit offen a
friend of mine that's about your size. Just crawl into 'em an' see how
they fit."
Five minutes later the cowboy viewed with approval the figure that
stood before him, booted and spurred, with his mud-caked garments
replaced by corduroy trousers and a shirt of blue flannel against which
the red silk muffler made a splotch of vivid colouring.
"You look like a sure enough top hand, now," grinned the Texan. "We'll
just take a drink on that." He drew the cork from the bottle and
tendered it to Endicott, who shook his head.
"No, thanks. I never use it."
The Texan stared at him in surprise. "Do you mean you've got the
regular habit of not drinkin', or is it only a temporary lapse of duty?"
Endicott laughed: "Regular habit," he answered.
The other drank deeply of the liquor and returned the cork. "You ought
to break yourself of that habit, Win, there's no tellin' where it'll
lead to. A fellow insulted me once when I was sober an' I never
noticed it. But laying aside your moral defects, them whiskers of
yourn is sure onornamental to a scandalous degree.
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