Читать книгу Hands Up! онлайн

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"When do you take lunch?" I asked Scotty.

"Eat lunch you mean," said he. "I eat lunch right now. When that freight goes through I'm free till the west-bound passenger. Are you going over?"

"Yes," I said.

"Wait for me, then, till I lock the door," said he.

"I shouldn't think you need lock a door here," I said.

"It's my instrument," he said. "I love that instrument of mine. I never leave it without locking the door. You come in and I'll show you just what kind of instrument she is. She ain't a railway one. I always pack my own instrument everywhere."

And so he carried me in to expatiate on it while my stomach cried more persistently for nourishment. The sage-brush lands nurture an appetite in a newcomer that is nothing short of fierce. I think Scotty talked for half an hour about his "instrument," waving his lean hands over it, talking about it in the way some parents talk about their children.

Into us, thus employed, following a courteous knock, came the man who had strolled over from the hotel after me a little while back to explain about the waggish individual's waggish attempt to make me have a lunchless day.