Grinning, Halfaman pocketed the dollar and hastened out ahead of Falcon the Flunky.
The cattleman had been a silent listener, his blue eyes growing wider and wider as the conversation progressed. Now he looked in puzzlement at the contractor.
“So that’s the way ye treat ’em, eh?” he said in a tone of wonderment. “That’s kinda funny. You’re a college man, Mr. Mangan—I thought ye’d be kinda stuck up with common tramps.”
Mangan laughed heartily. “I see you know nothing about construction camps, Mr. Canby,” he said. “We’re one of the biggest democracies on earth, I guess. Can’t run ’em any other way. The stiff is as independent as a hog on ice. Get uppish with him, and you’ll see your mules standing idle in your corrals. Wait till we get established out there. You’ll change your mind about the men you are pleased to call tramps.”
“What’s a ‘flunky?’” asked Squawtooth.
“Cook’s helper—pot-walloper—roustabout waiter—dishwasher.”
“Oh, I see. Falcon the Flunky! Funny! Kind of a smart-lookin’ Jasper.”
“He’s seen better days,” remarked Mangan briefly.
“D’ye shell out many dollars like that right along?” was Canby’s next question.
“Hundreds of them—between jobs, like this.”