of neat's foot oil on his bald head. The stranger sat reading a bill that hung on the wall at the ancient bootmaker's back.
This poster was an advertisement of an event that was going forward in Cottonwood that very day—a three days' fair celebrating the annual convention of the Cattle Raisers' Association. It was a modest announcement, in small type, but it seemed to draw the stranger into it as if it held matter of the first importance.
"Don't reckon you know anybody name of Gertie Moorehead up there in Topeky, do you?"
Uncle Boley spoke in casual manner, as if he might be inquiring after a distant relative, or somebody who owed him money that he never expected to collect. He pretended to be altogether centered in fitting another lift on the heel, keeping his eyes on it, making a little hissing noise through his teeth.
The young man started, reddened, took his eyes off the advertisement of the fair, as if he had been caught stealing leather.
"Who, sir?"
"Lady name of Gertie Moorehead," Uncle Boley repeated, still too busy to lift his eyes.
"No, sir; I can't say that I do, sir. I'm not very largely acquainted in that city, scarcely acquainted at all, sir."
"Oh, I reckon you just passed through," said
