“The man he spoke to quit drivin’ nails just long enough to answer. ‘When you Kansas folks git up one of them baby cyclones of yourn,’ he says, ‘fer Heaven’s sake have sand enough to accept the hand-out it gives y’.’”
“I savvy what you mean,” I says to the ole man, “but you fergit that in this case the moccasin don’t fit. Another man’s behind this, boss. The little gal has ketched singin’-bugs. And when she gits enough cash––”
“How can she git cash?”
“The eatin’-house is short of, help, Sewell. She can git a job easy–passin’ fancy Mulligan to the pilgrims that go through.”
Say! that knocked all the sarcastic laughin’ outen him. A’ awful anxious look come into his face. “Why–why, Cupid,” he begun. “You don’t reckon she’d go do that!”
Just then, Clickety–clickety–clickety–click a hoss was comin’ along the road. We both got to a winda. It was that bald-faced bronc of Macie’s again, haid down and tail out. But the bridle-reins was caught ’round the pommel t’ keep ’em from gittin’ under foot, and the little gal’s saddle–was empty!
CHAPTER SIX
WHAT A LUNGEE DONE
| “Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–” |
It was Macie Sewell singin’. Ole Number 201 ’d just pulled outen Briggs City, haided southwest with her freight of tenderfeet, and with Ingineer Dave Reynolds stickin’ in his spurs to make up lost time. The passengers ’d had twenty-five minutes fer a good grubbin’-up at the eatin’-house, and now the little gal was help-in’ the balance of the Harvey bunch to clear off the lunch-counter. Whilst she worked, she was chirpin’ away like she’d plumb bust her throat.