David Lannarck, Midget | Page 9

busy, can you send someone?"
"Why sure I'll meet you--Wednesday or any other day--here or any other place you say." The man of the mountains was absorbing some of the little man's enthusiasm. "Sure I'll meet you, but you work so fast and drive right through that I can hardly keep up. Why, we hardly drive through with one thing until you have another. If I seem indifferent and not very responsive, it's because I haven't caught up yet. Think of it! Ten hours ago I was coming out of the hills with a serious problem that was hindering my work. Now, I am rid of the problem, have ninety dollars in cash; have the offer of all the funds I need, and prospects of a fine companion all through the dreaded winter. The change from poverty to riches has been so rapid that it's more like a dream than a reality. And here's the worst feature of the whole business," continued Welborn as the two made their way to the ticket wagon. "Here's the fly in the ointment. My side of the equation has been nothing but plus, plus. I am fearful that yours will be more than minus. You are tired of the mob; you want to get away from the crowds. You have a mental picture of the ranching business; horses, cattle, cowboys, knee-deep grass billowing through the great open spaces. It's your dream to land right in the midst of such surroundings, and your disappointments will be terrible to endure. I have no such ranch and there's none nearer than ten miles of my place. Most of the cattle nowadays are purebred; the cowboys are cow hands, feeders, and care-takers--without a mount--and many of them never saw a pair of chaps and few wear ten gallon hats like the picture books show. That stuff belongs to the rodeos and dude ranches. Why the Diamond A Ranch over on Mad Trapper Fork is a model for any manufacturing plant. It has bookkeepers, salesmen, feeders from 'aggy' schools. You won't like that; it's not up to the standards of your dream. Of course you will like old Jim Lough of the B-line Ranch. He's ninety and used to be a tough hombre of the old school. But now he's out of the picture, his son Larry runs the ranch, and he is soon to give way to a young college girl who is up on foreign markets and the like.
"My fears are that what you see and experience will not be the picture of beauty and action that you had dreamed about. My poor little place, without livestock or feed--or action--will be a terrible disappointment."
"Well we will make a ranch out of it. The building of a ranch will be more pleasure than the possession of the finished product," rejoined Davy stoutly. "We will raise some feed, buy a few sheep and from there on, watch us grow! But early in this venture, I must get me a pony--a pinto, preferably--small enough for me to ride and big enough to go places. Then I'm all set. Hi, Lew!" The midget had climbed up on the wheel of the ticket wagon and was tapping on the window. "Cash my check for three hundred dollars and meet my podner, Mister Welborn."
"Your partner in what?" queried the accommodating Lew, as he slid back the window and began to count out the cash. "What's your racket now, Prince? Have you hooked up with Ben-a-Mundi in that Crystal Readings graft, or is it a short-change racket?" Lew aided Davy up to the shelf where he could sign the check. "Better look out, Mister Welborn, your partner here is a slicker--a regular city grafter. He skins his friends just to keep in practice. Paying you this little lump is just a bait. Later, he'll spring the trap for the big money." Lew slipped a rubber band around the money and handed it to Davy.
"You had better look 'em over for counterfeit bills," retorted Davy as he handed the money to Welborn. "This bird puts out more counterfeit money than he does genuine. And say, Lew, you and Jess think of me when you are huddled around the stove this winter with a lot of razorbacks--me out in the great open spaces feeling fine, and clear of mobs and nitwits. You fellows will have the razorbacks throw another basket of cobs in the old smoky stove, and I and Mr. Welborn here, will be toasting our feet before a log fire in the big fireplace--"
"Oh ho, it's that ranch thing that you have been chinning about for the last five years," chuckled the treasurer of the Great International. "How many calves will you brand next year? And where's your chaps and your spurs? And say, that