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 waiting trains with sharp eyes, looking for Waco's familiar brand. Waco was not there, stampeding around as he should have been, trying to locate that train. Let him go, said the boss; dang his old melt, let him burn it back, or walk.

Cowboys were not so much a sight in Kansas City then—or now, for that matter—as they were in some parts of this cultured land. Nobody paid any attention to the thin-featured, anxiously peering, long-shanked man in bronze-topped new boots, black silk shirt, scarlet necktie and gray moleskin vest. The brakeman ignored him with haughty carriage, knowing he was going back to the benighted place he came from on a hog-train ticket, as the elite of railroads spoke of cattlemen's passes.

Sid climbed back into the car after a few minutes, returning rather gloomily to his companions, who were talking animatedly, already beginning to relax from the strain of hopping and dodging out of the track of cable cars and carriages. They wondered again, their vexation growing, over Waco's plight, taking it for granted that he was somewhere involved in the bewildering machinery of that roaring town, dropping him presently to go on with the recounting of experiences from which they were still warm, as a man just rolled out of the blankets on a frosty morning. The boss took the pass from his wallet and sat staring at it in gloomy abstraction.

"Well, sir, as I was sayin', fellers, I never was up agin one of them fancy joints," Wallace went on with his narrative which the boss' return had interrupted, "and I stopped there lookin' in that winder like a horse with its