“All right! That’s a go. You le’ me stick around here till I see what’s to be seen, an’ if Crip or Limpy says them cows ain’t back when they bring down Mangan’s meat, I’ll go shoot ’em back.”
“I’d say Mr. Mangan, if I was you, son,” complacently corrected his father.
“Mr. Mangan,” dutifully parroted Mart. He had learned that to correct himself when corrected by his so-called betters was to forestall unpleasant argument.
“When are you going over to the railroad camp, muchacho?” Mart’s sister wanted to know.
“Just as soon as I eat this biscuit and Mis’ Ehrhart clears her throat like she does when she thinks everybody’s et enough.”
Everybody laughed at this.
“You little nut!” cried Manzanita, and, throwing her arms about her wriggling brother, kissed him on his blistered nose.
Limpy thoughtfully studied his own nose and no doubt wished that it were blistered. Crip looked at the bottom of his coffee cup and sighed.
“Well, clear your throat, Mrs. Ehrhart!” cried the girl. “Everybody’s through. I’m going with Mart.”
“Who said you was?”