LET 'ER BUCK 



man, Guy Wyrick, Brook Dickson, R. Chloupek, Ly- 

 man Rice and George Strand. They had rounded up 

 "Jock" Coleman and song was rife. 



"What ! You don't know Jock — that well knit, good 

 looking laddie with a brogue as refreshing as the scent 

 of heather?" In his early days as a lad he had "sailed 

 it" on windjammers along the Highland coasts, but 

 came out from bonnie Scotland to the West in 1906 

 to go into the steel business as a steelworker, but, as 

 he put it, only found bronchos and sagebrush. He 

 cowboyed it, ranched it, then his inherent highland 

 humor and love of music saw him in vaudeville, where 

 through his original compositions and inimitable im- 

 personations he was termed the Harry Lauder of 

 America; then back to ranching, in charge of a big 

 combine crew, and now he's railroading it — happy-go- 

 lucky, good-natured Jock, the best sort and a prime 

 favorite with all. In the minds of many, Jock's rich, 

 Scotch baritone should have made its impress on 

 many a gold disc record along with McCormack and 

 others. 



It was in this same hall that one night I sat in this 

 corner quietly alone, unobserved, and just as tonight 

 I listened and looked out on the same scene. You 

 know the sounds when a herd like that gets to milling 

 in a roofed-in corral — the murmuring drone of men's 

 voices, the occasional outstanding ejaculation, flavor- 

 ed with poetic vernacular or spiced with occasional un- 

 camouflaged profanity. Then the expectoration pause 

 before the expectant remark, the deep-toned, shake and 

 rattle of the leather cup and the softened rattle of the 

 edge-worn bones. A bit crude, yes. But only a primi- 

 tive shellac, which seems to bring out even more clearly 

 those splendid, fundamental, inherent qualities which 



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