"Jumpin' sand hills, but that's queer," said Bud, coming back to where Carl was still standing in the snow before the door, staring about in a bewildered way. "Gosh ding yer, Carl, I believe yer swiped my hat, an' if yer don't give it up I'll plant my toe whar it'll be felt onpleasantly."
"Honest, Pud, I ain't your hat taking," said Carl distressfully. "Vhy, I my hat losing too, yet."
"That's so, an' yer loaded down with truck. Throw them things inter ther house an' help me hunt ther thief. Don' be standin' thar like a sausage."
"Don'd you calling me a sissage," said Carl wrathfully. "I ain't feeling mooch as having fun mit you now. I bring all dese dings mit der saddle on, und I lose two or three every dime der pony makes his jumpings, und get down kvick to pick dem up maype as fifty dimes."
"Oh, all right. Quit yer bellyachin', an' come an' help. We can't get along without hats. That's a cinch."
Carl retired into the house with his bundles.
"Wow! Stop it, cuss ye," yelled Bud, as Carl came out of the cabin.
"I ain't didding noding," said Carl, backing away as Bud rushed upon him.
"Yer did, yer fat galoot. Yer pulled my hair 'most out by ther roots."
"I ain't pulling no hairs," Carl persisted.