Tim Montrose was the cook, and a good one he was, albeit that he "was not much larger than a drink of water," as the cowboys used to say. Tim was particularly tired of one fellow in the olden days who settled down near the ranch and made it his general source of provender. Almost; daily he would sojourn from his squatter's cabin to the ranch to visit Timmy, and incidentally "get his fill of grub."

One day Tim pulled out of the capacious oven a particularly delightful roast of great dimension. The visitor's nose soon led him to it. He gorged himself outrageously and had some internal pains as a result. Yet he felt called upon to compliment the cook. Tim asked him if he knew how to make roast beef tender in the cooking. Receiving the negative response, he told him to put a little strychnine upon it -- not too much, as a little too much might be fatal, but that he always put some on his own cooking. This suggestion, and the internal agonies increasing, so frightened his visitor that he never bothered Tim any further.

Montrose made regular trips to Chicago, to his old home ward, and he invariably came back with the scars of battle, for he loved a fight.

One time in a cow outfit, a big bully tried to "run a whizzer" on Timmy. For a little time those who knew Montrose were surprised to see the stranger apparently "getting by with it." Suddenly the battle fire in the little Irishman blazed up, and after a short but terrific battle, the bully turned and ran.