Bud was a good driver,
and he had a friendly pair of eyes--dark blue and with a
humorous little twinkle deep down in them somewhere--and a
human little smiley quirk at the corners of his lips. He did not
know it, but these things helped to fill his car.
Until gasoline married into the skylark family, Bud did well
enough to keep him contented out of a stock saddle. (You may not
know it, but it is harder for an old cow-puncher to find content,
now that the free range is gone into history, than it is for a
labor agitator to be happy in a municipal boarding house.)
Bud did well enough, which was very well indeed. Before the
second season closed with the first fall rains, he had paid for
his big car and got the insurance policy transferred to his name.
He walked up First Street with his hat pushed back and a
cigarette dangling from the quirkiest corner of his mouth, and
his hands in his pockets. The glow of prosperity warmed his
manner toward the world. He had a little money in the bank, he
had his big car, he had the good will of a smiling world. He
could not walk half a block in any one of three or four towns but
he was hailed with a "Hello, Bud!" in a welcoming tone. More
people knew him than Bud remembered well enough to call by
name--which is the final proof of popularity the world over.
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