SHEEP-HUNTING 171 



I was puzzled. I could not make out who you 

 were or what you wanted, anyhow." I could not 

 dispute the accuracy of the Doctor's first estimate 

 of our social status and moral character. Our 

 countenances, scarred by the cutting wind, 

 blistered and peeled by the rays of a bright 

 winter's sun reflected from dazzling snow or the 

 almost equally white surface of alkaline plains, 

 were partially concealed by a three weeks' growth 

 of stubbly beard, and were deeply engrained with 

 the black impalpable powder swept from off the 

 burned prairie by fierce gales. Our hands were 

 grimy, our clothes blood-besmirched and dirty, our 

 moccasins in holes, our headgear misshapen — for 

 constantly sleeping in a felt hat does not improve 

 its appearance or add elegance to its form ; we 

 were tired and travel-stained, and I have no doubt 

 we did look a most disreputable gang. After aU, 

 it is the clothes that make the man. One reads 

 in books of gifted individuals — superior persons, 

 in whose uncontaminated veins courses the bluest 

 Norman blood — who are supposed to present a 

 dignified and gentlemanlike appearance under all 

 circumstances ; but one does not often come 

 across them in real life. The gentihty of most 

 men is contained in their shirt collars. The 



