"Oh, I read a bit now and then," said the cowpuncher easily, "but I
ain't much on booklearnin'."
Bard was turning the pages slowly. The title, whose meaning dawned
slowly on his astonished mind as a sunset comes in winter over a grey
landscape, was The Critique of Pure Reason. He turned the book over and
over in his hands. It was well thumbed.
He asked, controlling his voice: "Are you fond of Kant?"
"Eh?" queried the other.
"Fond of this book?"
"Yep, that's one of my favourites. But I ain't much on any books."
"However," said Bard, "the story of this is interesting."
"It is. There's some great stuff in it," mumbled Lawlor, trying to
squint at the title, which he had quite overlooked during the daze in
which he first picked it up.
Bard laid the book aside and out of sight.
"And I like the characters, don't you? Some very close work done with
them."
"Yep, there's a lot of narrow escapes."
"Exactly. I'm glad that we agree about books."
"So'm I. Feller can kill a lot of time chinning about books."
"Yes, I suppose a good many people have killed time over this book.
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