"Mr. Dawson? Ha! Ha! Thirty-six on my porch right now. It must be
white with frost down on the levels. But it's most likely the last
this year.... Yes, they swore the tractors would be delivered two days
ago.... Call up the station agent. ... By the way, you catch Hanley
for me. I forgot to tell him to start the 'rat-catchers' out with
the second instalment of fly-traps.... Yes, pronto. There were a
couple of dozen roosting on my screen this morning.... Yes.... Good-
by."

At this stage, Forrest slid out of bed in his pajamas, slipped his
feet into the slippers, and strode through the French windows to the
bath, already drawn by Oh My. A dozen minutes afterward, shaved as
well, he was back in bed, reading his frog book while Oh My, punctual
to the minute, massaged his legs.

They were the well-formed legs of a well-built, five-foot-ten man who
weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. Further, they told a tale of the
man. The left thigh was marred by a scar ten inches in length. Across
the left ankle, from instep to heel, were scattered half a dozen scars
the size of half-dollars. When Oh My prodded and pulled the left knee
a shade too severely, Forrest was guilty of a wince. The right shin
was colored with several dark scars, while a big scar, just under the
knee, was a positive dent in the bone. Midway between knee and groin
was the mark of an ancient three-inch gash, curiously dotted with the
minute scars of stitches.

A sudden, joyous nicker from without put the match between the pages
of the frog book, and, while Oh My proceeded partly to dress his
master in bed, including socks and shoes, the master, twisting partly