"God in the mountains!" cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the
foreleg of his cull. "Can this be Longhorn Merritt?"
The other man was--oh, look on Broadway any day for the pattern-
-business man--latest rolled-brim derby--good barber, business,
digestion and tailor.
"Greenbrier Nye!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had
smitten him. "My dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you
come to--oh, to be sure--the inaugural ceremonies--I remember
you joined the Rough Riders. You must come and have luncheon
with me, of course."
Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the
size, shape and color of a McClellan saddle.
"Longy," he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic,
"what have they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen.
They done made you into an inmate of the city directory. You
never made no such Johnny Branch execration of yourself as that
out on the Gila. 'Come and have lunching with me!' You never
defined grub by any such terms of reproach in them days."
"I've been living in New York seven years," said Merritt. "It's
been eight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia's
outfit. Well, let's go to a caf'e, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it
called 'grub' again."
They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as
by a natural law, to the bar.
"Speak up," invited Greenbrier.
"A dry Martini," said Merritt.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Greenbrier; "and yet me and you once saw the
same pink Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in
Ca~non Diablo! A dry--but let that pass. Whiskey straight--and
they're on you."
Merritt smiled, and paid.
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