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He spoke of his home country like a man talkin' 'bout an old friend—Lent Scobey.
To you, old pard, a hearty "How." Thou knowest I have not forgotten. Thou know-est that some day I will be with you, and, as of yore, we will ride through the rain of a summer's day, or, in the keen October, feel the wind of the western mountains in our faces. Perhaps, it will be a strange range, and we will have to cross the Great Divide before we reach the "Home Ranch," but believe me, boy, I'll be there—I'll be there. And, when we meet, you will say unto me, quaintly and with the light of a great happiness in your face: "You miserable son-of-a-gun, I'm tickled to death to see you." After which you will strike me rudely on the shoulder and call me many strange names. Then your bed will be my bed, your chuck my chuck and your tobacco my tobacco. R. V. C.