with fragrant tobacco. It was new, the taste of burning varnish was not wholly absent, yet he couldn't remember that his expensive cigarettes had ever given him the same delight. It was a herdsman's smoke, he thought, and for the time being at least he was a herdsman. And the thought of refusing the meagre wage that the flock owner would be willing to pay for his inexperienced services didn't even occur to him. He wasn't, he remembered, devoting his time for nothing. And he was somewhat startled by the thought that for the first time in his life his—Hugh Gaylord's—time was actually worth somebody's good money.
There would be a satisfaction in that little wage that he had never received from the handsome checks that he got monthly from his trust company. The clinking dollars would be worth showing to the boys at his club,—trophies greater than the cups he had occasionally won at golf and tennis. A herder of sheep,—that was the title and degree of Hugh Gaylord, late of the Greenwood Club. The whole idea amused him more than he could tell.
The best of it was that no one would mistake his calling. He looked the part. He hadn't shaved—he remembered by the sudden feel of scratchy whiskers on his chin—for three days, and he had the disreputable look that usually results from such an omission. His outing clothes were torn, drenched, soiled, and dust-covered.
