He was something of a dandy in dress, another thing they loathed;
something of a purist in speech, which was affectation unpardonable;
something of a dissenter as to drink, appreciative of "Cucumungo" and
claret, but distrustful of whisky--another thing to call down scorn
illimitable from the elect of the mining camps and packing "outfits."
But all these disqualifications might have been overlooked had the
lieutenant displayed even a faint preference for poker. "The Lord
loveth a cheerful giver--or loser" was the creed of the cardroom
circle at the store, but beyond a casual or smiling peep at the game
from the safe distance of the doorway, Mr. Blakely had vouchsafed no
interest in affairs of that character. To the profane disgust of Bill
Hyde, chief packer, and the malevolent, if veiled, criticism of
certain "sporty" fellow soldiers, Blakely preferred to spend his
leisure hours riding up and down the valley, with a butterfly net over
his shoulders and a japanned tin box slung at his back, searching for
specimens that were scarce as the Scriptures among his commentators.
Even on this hot October afternoon he had started on his entomological
work, but, finding little encouragement and resting a while in the
shade, he had dozed away on a sandy couch, his head on his arms, his
broad-brimmed hat over his face, his shapely legs outstretched in
lazy, luxurious enjoyment, his tall and slender form, arrayed in cool
white blouse and trousers, really a goodly thing to behold.
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