Thus it was that the partners, in the doorway, saw the young dog round up the bunch and bring it toward them.
“A little ragged in spots, his work is,” commented Royce Mack. “But for a young dog it isn’t so bad. Maybe they train ’em ragged, over in England. We might do worse than take him, if we can buy him cheap. We’re a dog short, since that rattler got Zippy. Besides, the pup’s got a way with him that makes a hit with me. We can easy train that roughness out of him.”
He lowered his voice, and spoke with his lips close to Fenno’s ear; lest Brean catch his words Joel looked about; as, at a wide-arm shooing from the shepherd, the lambs bolted into the marking yard with the joyous collie at their heels.
Treve, his job done, trotted into the shack with them to rejoin his tramp-master. Royce patted him in comradely fashion. To his own surprise, he had begun to take a strong fancy to the beautiful pup.
They did not find Brean in the hut. While the partners were still wondering what had become of him, Joel Fenno discovered the loss of his vest. And Treve’s ears were assailed with language which would have done credit to Fraser Colt.
“Well,” philosophized Mack, when the older man had sworn himself hoarse, “we’ve got the pup, anyhow. It’s up to us to make him worth the fifty bucks that panhandler got with your wallet. The dog’s yours. You’ve sure paid for him.”
“Your money as much as mine,” grunted Fenno. “It was from the ranch cashbox. I brang it over here to give Billings for that lumber he freighted to Number Three last week. He was due, past here, to-day, and—”
“Then it’s our dog,” amended Mack; feeling somehow happier for the knowledge. “Anyhow, we’ll see whose he is. Suppose we match for him?”
Fenno glowered. He had bad luck when he and his partner matched coins for anything. Yet his sporting nature was roused by the suggestion. His glance fell speculatively upon the foreman’s treasured lump of sugar on the bracket.
“Gimme your pencil,” he ordered. “Mine is in my vest.”