chunk of ice. He's game. What's more, I'll bet he can cook."
Jackson was not especially predisposed towards his stomach, but a rancher who has the name of a good provider can secure hands where others go begging. Open air work, that is apt to be strenuous, breeds appetite that can get away with coarse food, but appreciates good. And Quong Li was a success from the moment he entered the kitchen. Stoney remained to show him the ropes and gasped at the deft way in which the new chef went to work upon half a dozen things at once, bringing them all to a grand climax. The well had made a little garden possible and Sheridan had planted it to vegetables. With these, with steaks broiled to a turn, crisp potatoes and flaky-crusted pies and coffee, Circle S dined well that night. Yet Sheridan was positive Quong Li had never graduated at a range. He had seen him nonchalantly sacrificing an extra inch of nail from his forefingers.
Jackson, privileged as foreman as well as in a genuine friendship between him and Sheridan, joined the latter on the ranch-house porch while the rest of the men went to their own quarters.
"That's the first coffee I've tasted since Stoney went on the job," he said, ecstatically, "barring what you made that night up by Lake of the Woods. Stoney's didn't even smell like coffee. It looked an' tasted like Ghost Crick flood water. If Quong keeps up his lick the boys 'ud fight for him if it ever came to a showdown."
"I offered to bet you a month's pay that was a
