Hicks went on wrathfully:
"That fat sister in the cameo breastpin—she swiped a can of potted chicken on me yesterday—she's a regular 'camp-robber'."
Wallie interposed hastily:
"We mustn't have any trouble. I want to get through this trip peaceably. In fact, Mr. Hicks, it's along this line that I wished to have a word with you."
Mr. Hicks looked at him quickly and suspiciously.
"Has any of 'em been kickin' on me?"
Wallie hesitated, casting a furtive eye about as he did so for the most convenient exit.
"Not kicking, I wouldn't say kicking, Mr. Hicks, but it has been suggested—I have been thinking that it might be pleasanter for you and Red to have your own table."
Mr. Hicks stopped turning over the potatoes and looked at him for what seemed to Wallie a full minute.
"In other words," he said, finally, in a voice that was oily and coaxing, as if he wanted the truth from him, "the dudes don't want the cook and the horse-wrangler to eat with them?"