Penrod took on the outward signs of deep thought.
“Well, there's plenty to DO, all right. I got to think.”
Sam made several suggestions, which Penrod—maintaining his air of preoccupation—dismissed with mere gestures.
“Oh, I know!” Sam cried finally. “We ought to wash him so's he'll look whiter'n what he does now. We can turn the hose on him across the manger.”
“No; not yet,” Penrod said. “It's too soon after his meal. You ought to know that yourself. What we got to do is to make up a bed for him—if he wants to lay down or anything.”
“Make up a what for him?” Sam echoed, dumfounded. “What you talkin' about? How can—”
“Sawdust,” Penrod said. “That's the way the horse we used to have used to have it. We'll make this horse's bed in the other stall, and then he can go in there and lay down whenever he wants to.”
“How we goin' to do it?”
“Look, Sam; there's the hole into the sawdust-box! All you got to do is walk in there with the shovel, stick the shovel in the hole till it gets full of sawdust, and then sprinkle it around on the empty stall.”
“All I got to do!” Sam cried. “What are you goin' to do?”