“Yes, let them tell it.”
“Oh, I don’t say they can throw a diamond hitch, or anything like that,” went on Gimp. “But I’m only tellin’ you p’raps they ain’t as green as we first believed. I s’pose it’s up to us to be decent to ’em, seein’ as how their paws—at least the paws of two of ’em—own this shebang.”
“That doesn’t fit in my pipe,” sententiously observed Hinkee Dee, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I’ll treat ’em decent, but blamed little of that. I don’t have to work here!”
“You seem sort of peeved,” observed Gimp, rolling himself a cigarette.
“Well, wouldn’t you be if you’d sat up nights thinkin’ up ways to fool these cattle thieves, and then had a bunch of mavericks, right off the baseball field, come along and want all the credit of it? Huh? I guess yes!”
“But you, nor none of us, didn’t solve the cattle mystery,” Gimp said.
“I know we didn’t. But I’m on the track of ’em. I’ve got a theory that I’m sure’ll work out all right— Well, what is it? You lookin’ for me?” he broke off, to speak to an approaching cowboy who was galloping up on a dust-flecked steed.
“They’ve gone and done it again, Jim!” the man called.
“Who’s done what?”