"'Oh! So you're the fellow she gave up her art for? I knew her on
the stage.'
"Something way deep down in the man grated on me, but the kid was
lookin' at the picture and never noticed, while hunger peered from
his face.
"'You can't blame me,' he says finally. 'She'd worry to death if she
saw that picture. The likeness is too good. You might substitute
another face on my shoulders; that can be done, can't it?'
"'Why, sure; dead easy, but I'll not run it at all if you feel that
way,' says the artist.
"Then, Morrow resumes, 'You'll be in Denver this fall, Struthers, eh?
Well, I want you to take a letter to her. She'll be glad to see an
old friend like you, and to hear from me. Tell her I'm well and
happy, and that I'll make a fortune, sure. Tell her, too, that there
won't be any mail out of here till spring.'
"Now, I don't claim no second sight in the matter of female features:
I ain't had no coachin'; not even as much as the ordinary, being
raised on a bottle, but I've studied the ornery imprints of men's
thoughts, over green tables and gun bar'ls, till I can about guess
whether they've drawed four aces or an invite to a funeral.
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