“Tell me about yourself,” suggested Madge’s mother when the cook had left them to themselves.
Joshua told his story again, and Mrs. Mundy listened attentively to every word.
“It’s rather a strange case,” was her only comment as he finished.
Presently a man with heavy, fiery-red hair entered the tent. Immediately Joshua knew him for “Bloodmop” Mundy, the father of Madge, and he knew that he would like this man with the twinkling sky-blue eyes, at the corners of which queer little crow’s-feet came and went, giving his face that quizzical, whimsical look which boys interpret as belonging to a man who is friendly and sympathetic to them and interested in their boyish activities. Bloodmop Mundy wore dirty yellow overalls and a disreputable slouch hat, and needed a shave. The sleeves of his blue chambray shirt were rolled up to his elbows, displaying great, muscle-corded arms on which the red hairs looked redder still by reason of the deep tan which was their background.
“Well, who in the dickens is this?” was his method of recognizing Joshua’s unfamiliar presence, and his voice came in a deep, musical boom.
Joshua stood up from the table while Mrs. Mundy broke the news.
“Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun!”—and the crow’s-feet shuttled at the corners of his twinkling blue eyes. “And was you really gonta soak th’ ole devil with th’ poker, kid?”
“George,” cautioned his wife, “watch your tongue.”
“Yes’m—excuse me, ’Lizabeth. Set down, kid—set down an’ finish yer chow. What ye gonta do about it when all’s said an’ done?”
This, Joshua felt, was his great opportunity. “I—I was thinkin’ maybe you could gi’me a job, Mr. Mundy. Madge, she said maybe you’d see about it. Anyway, she said she’d ask. Will you? I’m pretty stout. And I’d work. I wanta go West.”