"And me," continued Gloomy Gus, as he sensed the heavy silence, "I work harder than any of 'em. The mornin' star don't catch me in bed—no, sir! Not after half-past three. I got to git up then and mix my bread. And come night time, after my long day's work, I got to set my dough. But I git paid fer it—eighty dollars a month—and you can have the job to-morrer."
He paused again, as if to emphasize the lack of bidders, and then went deftly about his task.
"No, sir," he said; "you don't see no one strikin' fer the job of cook. That's hard work, that is. These boys all want to sit on a hawse and see the world go by."
Once more the heavy silence fell upon them, and Brigham picked up a towel and began to wipe the dishes.
"Goin' out to-day?" he inquired, as the boys began to straggle toward the corral.
"That's the word!" returned the cook. "Dinner at the north well, and back ag'in fer supper. Pack up and unpack, and pack ag'in at the well. Then cook a dinner and hook up the hawses, and cook some more at the home. Ef Henry Lee don't git me a flunky pretty soon I'm shore goin' to up and quit."
He glanced significantly at Bowles as he finished this last remark, but Brigham shook his head.
"I seen that Pringle kid come in yisterday," he said. "Mebbe you could git to have him."
That closed the conversation, and Bowles moved away. He was sorry for Mr. Mosby, very sorry; but not sorry enough to take a job as official dishwasher. Somehow all the world seemed to be in a conspiracy to make him flunky to the cook.
He hurried over to the corral, where the roping was going on, and as he neared the gate he met the boss coming out. On the previous day Mr. Lee had seemed a little under the dominance of his feelings, but this morning he was strictly business.