punchin' days we'll remember happily when we're millionaires," Tom said.
"You started young, Tom."
"No, not so young. I was twenty-two when I came over."
"Wel-l-l," Waco sighed, "I'd like to line up with my navel agin the bar just once more to-night, old feller, and drink a round to the old days that's gone and the old life we're leavin'. But as we can't do it, we'll pass 'em up without regrets and say here's luck for the new."
Waco put out his hand; Tom's met it over' the fire.
"Here's luck for the new," Tom repeated the sentiment, solemnly as a rite.
"I'll have to round up my colts in the morning when we git home and rack right back to town. I've got my scales to put in and build me a little office and put my advertisement in the paper."
"We'll be sorry to see you go," Tom said.
"Oh well, I ain't jumpin' off. I'll be out now and then to see how you're makin' it."
"Of course," Tom said. He looked up quickly, the firelight glancing in his eyes like that old trick of a glimmering smile. "Do you remember the time you thought—you remarked, you know, old chap—I was married into the family, what?"
"Sure I do," Waco replied heartily. "It was a poor guess, but it was well meant."
"Just so," said Tom. "Next time you come out, old feller, it will be that way."
"The-hell-you-say!" said Waco, his delight beyond confines.
