The Vagabond in Green

As Milt had headed westward from Butte, as he rattled peacefully along
the road, conscious of golden haze over all the land, and the
unexpectedness of prairie threshing-crews on the sloping fields of
mountainsides, a man had stepped out from bushes beside the road, and
pointed a .44 navy revolver.

The man was not a movie bandit. He wore a green imitation of a Norfolk
jacket, he had a broad red smile, and as he flourished his hat in a bow,
his hair was a bristly pompadour of gray-streaked red that was almost
pink. He made oration: "Pardon my eccentric greeting, brother of the open road, but I wanted
you to give ear to my obsequious query as to how's chances on gettin' a
lift? I have learned that obsequiousness is best appreciated when it is
backed up by prayer and ca'tridges."

"What's the idea? I seem to gather you'd like a lift. Jump in."

"You do not advocate the Ciceronian style, I take it," chuckled the man
as he climbed aboard.

Milt was not impressed. Claire might have been, but Milt had heard
politics and religion argued about the stove in Rauskukle's store too
often to be startled by polysyllabomania. He knew it was often the sign
of a man who has read too loosely and too much by himself. He snorted.
"Huh! What are you--newspaper, politics, law, preacher, or gambler?"

"Well, a little of all those interesting occupations. And
ten-twent-thirt trouping, and county-fair spieling, and selling Dr.
Thunder Rapids' Choctaw Herbal Sensitizer. How far y' going?"