THE TRAIL 217 



ever two or three men get together and cut a 

 watermelon, they want someone to make a speech 

 over it. 



As T started back I overtook the drunkard. 

 There are other drunkards, of course, but this 

 was the only one I had met on the trip. He was 

 one of those who can only think aloud. His mental 

 processes repeated themselves in speech as literally 

 as a phonograph its records. I was a godsend to 

 him, and he immediately began, after the usual 

 platitudes of the trail, to think in his vernacular. 

 He was one of those ^^Say" conversationalists. 

 ^'Say, I got the best wife you ever saw. I got a 

 ranch over there and she jest runs that ranch. 

 Say, I got two kids. Say, I wish you could see them 

 kids. One of 'em has black hair and one of 'em 

 has yellow hair. Say, ain't that funny?" And so 

 on, till his trail finally split with mine and I lost 

 him. 



Coming over the hill I met the grey lady with 

 her little music roll of baggage, trudging her way 

 over to Gardiner. I stopped and talked with her 

 for a moment and wondered at her. She had 



