“You might explain why you let that” (several kinds of) “cayuse get away from you!” retorted Jack, fretfully. “If you'd been onto your job, things would have been smooth as silk.”
“Wonder what the old maid thought,” broke in Weary, bent on preserving peace in the Happy Family.
“I'll bet she never saw us at all!” laughed Cal. “Old Splinter gave her all she wanted to do, hanging to the rig. The way he came down that grade wasn't slow. He just missed running into Banjo on the Hog's Back by the skin of the teeth. If he had, it'd be good-by, doctor—and Chip, too. Gee, that was a close shave!”
“Well,” said Happy Jack, mournfully, “if we don't all get the bounce for this, I miss my guess. It's a little the worst we've done yet.”
“Except that time we tin-canned that stray steer, last winter,” amended Weary, chuckling over the remembrance as he fastened the big gate behind them.
“Yes, that was another of Jack's fool schemes,” put in Slim. “Go and tin-can a four-year-old steer and let him take after the Old Man and put him on the calf shed, first pass he made. Old Man was sure hot about that—by golly, it didn't help his rheumatism none.”
“He'll sure go straight in the air over this,” reiterated Happy Jack, with mournful conviction.
“There's old Splinter at the bunk house—drawing our pictures, I'll bet a dollar. Hey, Chip! How you vas, already yet?” sung out Weary, whose sunny temper no calamity could sour.
Chip glanced at them and went on cutting the leaves of a late magazine which he had purloined from the Dry Lake barber. Cal Emmett strode up and grabbed the limp, gray hat from his head and began using it for a football.
“Here! Give that back!” commanded Chip, laughing. “DON'T make a dish rag of my new John B. Stetson, Cal. It won't be fit for the dance.”