"Study your types. She's an amateur author and she means to write stories about cowboys. So she's looking for good types."
"Sa-ay!" Tony's irrepressible drawl cut musically through the amazed silence. "Loan me your type, will yuh, Bob? I lost mine back there where I bulldogged that roan steer."
"I will not! I'm goin' to need all the type I got. Is she purty, Bud?"
"She sure is." Bud glanced up at the moon and softly rhapsodized, "Big, devilish gray eyes—they'd drown a man's troubles so deep he'd swear he never had one. Her mouth—if her mouth has never been kissed it should be."
"It's goin' to be," Tony murmured, and made a motion of rising to his feet. Big Bob Leverett yanked him down.
"You ain't in this, Tony. Bud's givin' me the dope. You gwan to bed. You ain't got no type, and there ain't nothin' to set up for!"
"Law-zee, boss!" cried a tall young man with unbelievably small feet thrust straight out before him into the moonlight. "Here's one scholar that'll sure never be tardy!"
"I'm goin' to whisper an' stick out my tongue at you pelicans, and git to stay after school," Gelle declared.
"You—you fellers can go to her darned old school, but I won't," a young, rebellious voice cried from within the open door.
"Skookum?" Bud leaned and peered into the dark. "Come on out here, pardner. Why aren't you in bed?"