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, 



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