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 was sorry, indeed, that he had looked so determined and menacing while Withers was stalling around at the depot with the sheriff that evening. He had queered the whole show by uncovering his hand.

Windy rocked gently, leaning back at ease, refreshed by the cool wind that was coming by little starts through his window. He had the large and comfortable feeling of a man who has made the pleasurable discovery that his fame is wider than he had known. With these pleasant fancies over him, the ease of virtue in his valiant limbs, Windy went to sleep, the pistol in his hand, and drifted into a disturbing and tumultuous dream.

Baldy Evans, the shops watchman, was a sleek, tightskinned large man, dark, unctuous, slow. He looked as if he had come out of black oil, and was on the point of going back into it, uncomfortable as a lobster every minute that he was constrained by duty from laving in its refreshing balm. Baldy was standing in the door of the engine room, consulting his oily watch, a little impatient of the slow-coming dawn, which was beginning to melt away the ground-darkness and show the switch-stands in the yards. Somebody was up, already, frying ham; the smell of it was pleasantly provoking to a hungry man, who had more than two hours yet to wait for his relief.

Baldy stood caressing his fat, sleek watch, running his thumb with circular motion over the glass, leaving an oily dimness. He was trying to correlate that pan of frying ham on somebody's early fire with the habits