“Hey! You'll have all the chinkin' out of the dang shack, if you let him keep that lick up, Bud,” Cash grumbled, lifting his eyebrows at the mess.
“Tell a worl'!” Lovin Child retorted over his shoulder, and made another grab.
This time the thing he held resisted his baby strength. He pulled and he grunted, he kicked Bud in the chest and grabbed again. Bud was patient, and let him fuss—though in self-defense he kept his head down and his eyes away from the expected dust bath.
“Stay with it, Boy; pull the darn roof down, if yuh want. Cash'll get out and chink 'er up again.”
“Yeah. Cash will not,” the disapproving one amended the statement gruffly. “He's trying to get the log outa the wall, Bud.”
“Well, let him try, doggone it. Shows he's a stayer. I wouldn't have any use for him if he didn't have gumption enough to tackle things too big for him, and you wouldn't either. Stay with 'er, Lovins! Doggone it, can't yuh git that log outa there nohow? Uh-h! A big old grunt and a big old heave—uh-h! I'll tell the world in words uh one syllable, he's some stayer.”
“Tell a worl'!” chuckled Lovin Child, and pulled harder at the thing he wanted.
“Hey! The kid's got hold of a piece of gunny sack or something. You look out, Bud, or he'll have all that chinkin' out. There's no sense in lettin' him tear the whole blame shack to pieces, is there?”
“Can if he wants to. It's his shack as much as it's anybody's.” Bud shifted Lovin Child more comfortably on his shoulder and looked up, squinting his eyes half shut for fear of dirt in them.
“For the love of Mike, kid, what's that you've got? Looks to me like a piece of buckskin, Cash. Here, you set down a minute, and let Bud take a peek up there.”