This done, he came forward,
brushing the sleeve of his alpaca coat and grinning jovially.
"How are you?" He extended a fat, perspiring hand luckily powdered
with flour. "I reckon you won't mind riding out with me. Tom said he'd
bet you'd rather walk to limber up your legs, but Lucy made me fetch
the buggy along, as some said you wasn't as well as common. But you
look all right to me-that is, as well as _any_ of you city fellers
ever do. The last one of you look as white as convicts out o' jail. I
reckon thar is so much smoke over your town that the sun don't strike
it good and straight."
"Oh, I'm all right," Mostyn said, good-naturedly, "just a little run
down from overwork, that's all."
"Run down?" Webb seemed quite concerned with getting at the exact
meaning of the statement, and as he took Mostyn's bag and put it in
with the flour he eyed the banker attentively. _"Run down?"_ he
repeated, with his characteristic emphasis. "I don't see how a man as
big an' hearty as you look an' weighin' as much could git sick or even
_tired_ without havin' any more work to do than you have. I've always
meant to ask you or Mr. Saunders what you fellers do, _anyway._ I
reckon banks are the same in big towns as in little ones.
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