“Sing it, Humble,” suggested Tad, laughing. “Sing it!”
“Whistle some of it, and send the rest by mail,” assisted Jack Lawson.
“Seen th’ dlog?” came a bland, monotonous voice from the doorway, where Lee Lung stood holding a chunk of beef in one hand, while his other hand was hidden behind his back. Over his left shoulder projected half a foot of club, which he thought concealed. “Seen th’ dlog?” he repeated, smiling.
“Miss Mirandy and holy hell!” shouted Humble, leaping forward at sight of the club. There was a swish! and Humble rebounded from the door, at which he stared. From the rear of the house came more monotonous words: “Nice dlog-gie. Pletty Lightling. Here come. Gette glub,” and Humble galloped around the corner of the house, swearing at every jump.
When the laughter had died down Blake smiled grimly: “Some day Lee will get that dog, and when he does he’ll get him good and hard. Then we’ll have to get another cook. I’ve told him fifty times if I’ve told him once not to let it go past a joke, but it’s no use.”
“He won’t hurt the cur, he’s only stringing Humble,” said Bud. “Nobody would hurt a dog that minded his own business.”
“If anybody hit a dog of mine for no cause, he wouldn’t do it again unless he got me first,” quietly remarked The Orphan.
Jim hastily pointed to the corner of the house where a club projected into sight: “There’s Lee now!” he whispered hurriedly. “He’s laying for him!”
There was a sudden spurt of flame and smoke and the club flew several yards, struck by three bullets. Humble hopped around the corner holding his hand, his words too profane for repetition.
Smoke filtered from The Orphan’s holster and eyes opened wide in surprise at the wonderful quickness of his gunplay, for no one had seen it. All there was was smoke.