The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
for the result of it was stamped all over his face, 
especially his nose; but he was a genial, kindly 
man, and we became quite friends. My great 
friend of the outfit, though, was the self-imposed 
cook. He was a bootmaker from Chicago—a 
little old man of quite sixty years of age, thin 
as a rail, but lively and cheerful withal. He 
told me all his history from “A” to “Z”; I 
almost knew his wife and family from having 
them described to me so minutely, but it pleased 
him to talk of his home, so I bore with it. One 
day early in our acquaintance he said, ‘“ I guess 
you hate cooking, Studley. I’m just glad to be 
able to help you, for I reckon you ain’t accus- 
tomed to it.” I told him I had been obliged to 
do my own cooking often enough, but loathed 
the job. He always gave me the tit-bits, so far 
as he was able, and treated me very kindly. 
On another occasion, apropos of nothing, he 
said, ““I like you, you ain’t got none of them 
damned frills on. I always reckoned you 
Britishers were stuck-up chaps, but I guess I 
don’t know much about ’em.” I had to explain 
to him that a great many Englishmen had no 
reason to be “‘ stuck-up,” as he termed it. Poor 
little chap! I took quite a fancy to this man. 
It was plucky of him to come up to such a 
country as this at his time of life in order to 
make money quickly for his wife and family. 
I inquired for him on my return to Tyonak, 
212 
