"
Mount Dunstan sat down beside him. He wanted to hear him talk. He had
liked to hear the ranchmen talk. This one was of the city type, but his
genial conversational wanderings would be full of quaint slang and good
spirits. He was quite ready to converse, as was made manifest by his
next speech.
"I'm biking through the country because I once had an old grandmother
that was English, and she was always talking about English country, and
how green things was, and how there was hedges instead of rail fences.
She thought there was nothing like little old England. Well, as far as
roads and hedges go, I'm with her. They're all right. I wanted a fellow
I met crossing, to come with me, but he took a Cook's trip to Paris.
He's a gay sort of boy. Said he didn't want any green lanes in his. He
wanted Boolyvard." He laughed again and pushed his cap farther back on
his forehead. "Said I wasn't much of a sport. I tell YOU, a chap that's
got to earn his fifteen per, and live on it, can't be TOO much of a
sport."
"Fifteen per?" Mount Dunstan repeated doubtfully.
His companion chuckled.
"I forgot I was talking to an Englishman. Fifteen dollars per
week--that's what 'fifteen per' means. That's what he told me he gets at
Lobenstien's brewery in New York.
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