“Get back,” said Scottie, and moved slowly away.
The men watched him go to the old hut that stood a couple of hundred yards from the big one, untwist the bit of fencing wire that held the door, and pass in with his broom.
“Put the little hut in shape,” said Darby. “What d’you suppose....”
He interrupted himself. “An’ what’s wrong wi’ Blazes? He looks mad over suthin’.”
The cook had bounced from the door, dashed out a basin of greasy water, and flung himself inside again with violent anger and indignation in every motion, and then the men could hear him rattling and slamming dishes about as if they were his personal enemies.
They were all too well accustomed to the blazes of anger that had earned him his name to pay much attention to it, and just at present they were much more concerned over what Scottie was going to do with the small hut. But it appeared there was a connection between the two things.
“’As he tole you?” Blazes demanded, coming over to them. “’As he tole you ’e’s bringin’ them blighted sheep up ’ere?”
“Yes,” said Darby. “But I dunno why it should worry you, Blazes. You don’t ’ave to cook for the sheep.”
“Cook for the sheep, you mutton-’ead” retorted Blazes. “Don’t I ’ave to cook for the shepherds though? Don’t I know wot it means too? Men comin’ in all hours day an’ night, and wantin’ feedin’. An’ makin’ up tucker for you an’ the rest to take out on the ’ills. An’ extry ’ands ’ere from down below....”
“Wot’s Scottie doin’ wi’ the old hut?” put in Whip Thompson.