It became
unbearably evident that he looked on all this as the romance of youth.
Bob felt himself suddenly reduced, in the lumberman's eyes, to the
status of the small boy who wants to be a cowboy, or a sailor, or an
Indian fighter. Welton looked on him with an indulgent eye as on one who
would soon get enough of it. The glamour--whatever it was--would soon
wear off; and then Bob, his fling over, would return to sober, real
business once more. All Welton's joviality returned. From time to time
he would throw a facetious remark in Bob's direction, when, in the
course of the day's work, he happened to pass.
"It's sure going to be fine to wear a real tin star and be an officer!"
Or:
"Bob, it sure will seem scrumptious to ride out and boss the whole
country--on ninety a month. Guess I'll join you."
Or:
"You going to make me sweep up my slashings, or will a rake do, Mr.
Ranger?"
To these feeble jests Bob always replied good-naturedly. He did not
attempt to improve Welton's conception of his purposes. That must come
with time. To his father, however, he wrote at great length; trying his
best to explain the situation.
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