Tom Outland's Story
at Christmas time. He won’t bother you, he’s not
got any of the mean ways of a bum—I know a bum
when I see one. Next time I come down I’ll bring
him some old clothes from the ranch, and you can
fire him if you want to. All his baggage is that
newspaper bundle, and there’s nothing in it but
shoes—a pair of patent leathers and a pair of
sneakers. The important thing is, never, on any
account, go off skylarking, you two, and leave him
with the cattle. Not for an hour, mind you. He
ain’t strong enough, and he’s got no head.”
Life was a holiday for Blake and me after we got old Henry. He was a wonderful cook and a good housekeeper. He kept that cabin shining like a playhouse; used to dress it all out with pinon boughs, and trimmed the kitchen shelves with newspapers cut in fancy patterns. He had learned to make up cots when he was a hospital orderly, and he made our bunks feel like a Harvey House bed. To this day that’s the best I can say for any bed. And he was such a polite, mannerly old boy; simple and kind as a child. I used to wonder how anybody so innocent and defenceless had managed to get along at all, to keep alive for nearly seventy years in as hard a world as this. Anybody could take advantage of him. He held no grudge against any of the people who had misused him. He loved to tell about the celebrated people he’d been steward to, and the liberal tips they had given him. There with
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