“Look who’s here!” remarked Lardo the Cook to Falcon the Flunky, as the former came in from the tank wagon. “Couple o’ Alkali Ikes just made it in on de Jack-an’-Ned Short Line. A Ike an’ a Ikerooess. Couple o’ splinters offen sumpin—a he one an’ a goil. Some Moll, I’ll say—only she wears leadder pants. Lamp de bot’ of ’em, Jade. Scenery—no foolin’!”
Falcon the Flunky stepped to the cook-tent door and saw the new arrivals shaking hands with Hunter Mangan, fresh and immaculate in neat khaki and leather puttees.
“Wot about her, ol’-timer? There—wot?”
“She’s certainly pretty,” agreed The Falcon in his perpetually grave manner. “Brother and sister, I should say. They seem to be acquainted with Mangan.”
“Guess dey b’long to dat ranch over dere in dem cottonwoods an’ jungles—hey? Ain’t dat wot dey call Squawtoot’?”
“I believe so.”
“An ancient hick wid w’iskers—hey? I seen um in dat Opacko boig talkin’ to de squeeze.”
“Oh, is that he?” observed The Falcon. “I believe I saw him, too, when I applied for my job. Wore silver-mounted spurs and chaps—quite a picturesque old Westerner.”
“Say, kid, youse sure c’n spill de lingo,” Lardo commented. “Now if I’d ’a’ been a-tellin’ ’bout dat ole Ezekiel I’d ’a’ said: ‘An ole mattress robber wid his pins in leadder stovepipes an’ one geed lamp.’ Pictur-es-que, was he? I’ll say he was worse’n dat. But wot about dis jane—give us de dope on her, Jack! Like’s not she’s dis ole cocklebur’s dawter.”
“She’s pretty,” repeated The Falcon, his eyes on the girl.