"Seven--eighteen--ninety-nine. 'Atta-boy," he said thickly.
"Don't you see he's starving and out of his head?" snapped Holt
brusquely. "Get him grub, _pronto_."
The old man rose and moved toward the suffering man. "Come, pard. Tha'
's all right. Sit down right here and go to it, as the old sayin' is."
He led the man to a place beside Big Bill and made him sit down. "Better
light a fire, boys, and get some coffee on. Don't give him too much
solid grub at first."
The famished man ate what was given him and clamored for more.
"Coming up soon, pardner," Holt told him soothingly. "Now tell us
howcome you to get lost."
The man nodded gravely. "Hit that line low, Gord. Hit 'er low. Only
three yards to gain."
"Plumb bughouse," commented Dud, chewing tobacco stolidly.
"Out of his head--that's all. He'll be right enough after he's fed up
and had a good sleep. But right now he's sure some Exhibit A. Look at
the bones sticking through his cheeks," Big Bill commented.
"Come, Old-Timer. Get down in your collar to it. Once more now. Don't
lie down on the job. All together now." The stranger clucked to an
imaginary horse and made a motion of lifting with his hands.
"Looks like his hawss bogged down in Fifty-Mile Swamp," suggested Holt.
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