Meanwhile the car swung into the long stretch of gray road at the farther end of which lay the village of Ryson.

Ranches gave place to cottages, widely separated, and these in turn to the row of square-fronted, old, and weather-beaten frame and stone structures that constituted Ryson. The one street appeared as wide as a public square. Along its quarter of a mile of business section could be seen several cattle, two horses, a burro, and some dogs, but no people. A couple of dilapidated automobiles marked the site of the garage, which had evidently once been a blacksmith’s shop. The town seemed enveloped in the warm, drowsy, sleepy air of midsummer.

Cal stopped his Ford at the garage, not without a slight feeling of gratification at the amaze his advent would create. Upon the last occasion of his leaving the garage with this particular Ford one of the mechanics had remarked: “It’s a cinch we’ll never see this flivver ag’in!”

“Say, will you have dinner with me?” queried Cal, of his silent companion.

“Will I? Boy, lead me on,” replied the ex-marine. “I’ll say you’re a sport.”

“Glad to have you,” responded Cal. “But we’re early. There’s the hotel—that gray house with the wide porch. You can wait for me there.”

“You’ll find me anchored, and I’m hoping the dinner bell will ring quick,” he replied, taking his bundle and shuffling away in the direction indicated.

The young man of the garage stood gaping. “Cal, what is thet you had with you?” inquired one.

“Where’d it come from?” asked another.

“It’s a scarecrow hitched on to a coupla beanpoles,” said a third.

Cal laughed and explained: “Oh, that’s a chap I picked up on the road.”

“Did he manipulate on this hyar Lizzie of yourn?” inquired the first garage man, indicating the Thurman Ford.

“No, he didn’t,” retorted Cal. “I’ll have you understand I drove this car.”

“Car? This ain’t no car. It’s a sheet-iron wagon with a milk can fer an engine.”

“Ahuh! Well, you lay off her with your monkey wrenches,” returned Cal.

Leaving the car there, Cal proceeded into the big barnlike general store and post office, and set about the responsible and difficult task of selecting and purchasing the things enumerated by the womenfolk of the Thurman household. In his anxiety during the performance of this duty he quite forgot the dinner engagement he had made with the hungry traveler until he had completed the selection to the best of his ability. Then he carried the packages out to the car and deposited them on the back seat. “Reckon she’ll have a lot of stuff to pack,” he muttered, suddenly reminded of his expected passenger.

After this he repaired to the hotel porch, there to find the cadaverous individual waiting with hungry eyes.

“Say, I’m sorry I was so long, but I had a lot to do,” said Cal. “Let’s go in an’ get it.”

In the ensuing half hour Cal was to learn that a kind action, however thoughtlessly entered into, could have singular effect, not only upon the recipient, but upon him who offered it. Naturally, being a range rider, he had been many a time as hungry as a bear, but he had never seen a man apparently half starved. How good this meal must have been to the fellow! Cal’s curiosity followed his sympathy.

“My name’s Cal Thurman,” he said, at the end of the dinner. “What’s yours?”

“Tuck Merry,” was the reply.

“Say, that’s a funny name. Merry! It sure doesn’t suit you, friend. An’ Tuck—never heard it before.”

“It’s a nickname. Almost forgot I had another. But it was Thaddeus.”

“Huh? How’d you ever get called Tuck?” asked Cal, curiously.

“I was in the marines. They’re a scrappy bunch. An’ every time I punched a buddy I’d tuck him away to sleep. So they nicknamed me Tuck.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Cal, in wondering admiration. Nothing could have been more calculated to arouse his friendliness. “You must have a punch?”

“Yes. It just comes natural,” replied Merry, simply.