The last ounce of disgust with life slid from his mind when
he heard the greeting, and he turned and gripped hard the gloved hand
thrust toward him. Ches Mason it was--the same old Ches, with the same
humorous wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the same kindliness, the
same hearty faith in the world as he knew it and in his fellowmen as he
found them--the unquestioning faith that takes it for granted that the
other fellow is as square as himself. Ford held his hand while he
permitted himself a swift, reckoning glance which took in these
familiar landmarks of the other's personality.
"Don't seem to have hurt you much--matrimony," he observed whimsically,
as he dropped the hand. "You look just like you always did--with your
hat on." In the West, not to say in every other locality, there is a
time-honored joke about matrimony, for certain strenuous reasons,
producing premature baldness.
Ches grinned and removed his hat. Eight years had heightened his
forehead perceptibly and thinned the hair on his temples. "You see what
it's done to me," he pointed out lugubriously. "You ain't married
yourself, I suppose? You look like you'd met up with some kinda
misfortune.
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