His glances never roved about taking account of the admiration of others.

As he leaned there in the door of the hotel he was the type of the young, happy, genuine and carefree fellow, whose mind is no heavier with a thousand dollars or a thousand cents in his pocket.
Suddenly he started from his lounging place, caught his hat more firmly over his eyes, threw away his unlighted cigarette and hurried across the veranda of the hotel.

Had he seen an enemy to chastise, or an old friend to greet, or a pretty girl?
No, it was only old Jud Harding, the blacksmith, whose hand had lost its strength, but who still worked iron as others mold putty, simply because he had the genius for his craft.

He was staggering now under a load of boards which he had shouldered to carry to his shop.

In a moment that load was shifted to the shoulder of Ronicky Doone, and they went on down the street, laughing and talking together until the load was dropped on the floor of Harding's shop.
"And how's the sick feller coming ?" asked Harding.
"Coming fine," answered Ronicky.