Without me pay day from the M. K. and T!”
As he drew near to the blinking lights of Jeddo’s camp his song trailed off; and when he reached the front of the cook tent he was silent altogether.
The cook tent was dark, and its flaps tied together inhospitably, proving that its presiding angel had thriftily finished her work for the day. Mr. Daisy walked around it, stumbled over a guy rope, righted himself and the new pink tie which he fondly imagined went well with his sandy kinks, and continued his approach toward the van in the rear.
Mr. Daisy cleared his throat and knocked on the oaken doubletrees. Achieving nothing beyond a faint, unresounding tattoo and aching knuckle bones, he repeated the signal on the wagon box.
“Well? Who’s there?” came from within.
“Hello, Wing-o! It’s me. How’s each trivial detail this large evening?”
“The can’s three quarters full. You filled ’er this mornin’, you remember.”
“I did, at that I’d forgotten. I’m afoot now, though, Wing-o.”
“Keep that way.”
“You ain’t gone to bed?”