John D. Swain, Deadwood (1920)
“ For the first time Elmer found his ideal realized. He lay in a feather bed, ate prodigiously, outraged the maidenly Pritchett noses with the reek of his old cuddy pipe, read a little, slept much. Fat returned to his bones. Outside, the snow lay deep on field and road. Inside, the wood fire crackled soothingly—every room in the house had its fireplace—and there was no tyrannical boss to set him to shingling roofs, painting barns, mending harness, digging wells, or setting dull saw blades. ”
