Achmed Abdullah

“ He rose, glass in hand, as if carried away by the surging feelings in his heart. "Ladies and gentlemen! Pardon me—I know it's—oh not the right thing to do, at such an informal little party. But will you permit me to drink to—ah—" looking at the men behind the table, successful men of the Northwest, hearty, well-fleshed, keen Americans with a sprinkling of Britons and Canadians—"to you! The Anglo-Saxons! First in freedom and achievement!"
The toast was taken up. Glasses clinked. Only Tom Graves and Martin Wedekind sat silent and moody. ”

“ My bank account is running up so fast that I'm afraid at times it's all a dream ..."
And so, the next morning, Tom Graves left town, and two days later found him facing Gamble in the latter's cabin, a long, low building of dovetailed logs, dirt-roofed and chinked with mud, most of its four-paned windows built in to "keep the air out," its tall stove pipe wired and braced, trying to lead an upright life in spite of the furious wind that sometimes boomed from the higher Hoodoo peaks and roared through the draw at the rate of forty and fifty miles an hour. ”

“ He isn't one of those sighing, ogling, hand-kissing society corsairs. He and—I hate like the deuce to own up to it—he's a sportsman, all right. And it isn't only the ladies that like him. The men, too, have fallen for him like weak-kneed nine pins ... ”