I misplaced the key."
No semblance of a smile altered the faces of the cowpunchers around the
table, but glances of vague meaning were interchanged. Kilrain
reappeared almost at once, bearing a large box of cigars under each arm.
"The eats bein' over," announced Lawlor, "we can now light up. Open them
boxes, Shorty. Am I goin' to work on you the rest of my life teachin'
you how to serve cigars?"
Kilrain sighed deeply, but obeyed, presenting the open boxes in turn to
Bard, who thanked him, and to Lawlor, who bit off the end of his smoke
continued: "A match, Kilrain."
And he waited, swelling with pleasure, his eyes fixed upon space.
Kilrain lighted a match and held it for the two in turn. Two rows of
waiting, expectant eyes were turned from the whole length, of the table,
toward the cigars.
"Shall I pass on the cigars?" suggested Bard.
"_These_ smokes?" breathed Lawlor. "Waste 'em on common hands? Partner,
you ain't serious, are you?"
A breath like the faint sighing of wind reached them; the cowpunchers
were resigned, and started now to roll their Durham.
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