“One—quite close. Stlingbloke, they call it.”
“Purty raw?”
“I—I suppose so.”
“How close to where we’re gonta camp will it be?”
“About four miles off, I should think.”
“Huh! Jest our luck! They’s always a ragtown right near us, it seems. An’ poor pa he jest can’t keep away from booze. An’ when he’s pifflercated then I gotta keep jumpin’.”
“He isn’t mean to you, is he?” asked Manzanita, in an awed little voice.
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t stand for that. I’m of age. He jest can’t do nothin’ but lay ’round an’ groan—so I gotta cook an’ be bossman, too. Hejupah, Ned! Hejup, Jack!”
“It seems that every mule on railroad work is named either Ned or Jack,” remarked Manzanita, anxious to change the topic.
“Them’s jest railroad names,” explained Wing o’ the Crow. “Railroaders always call tassel tails Ned an’ Jack. D’ye know any o’ th’ stiffs yet?”