The following Bar-O’s faltered, and exchanged glances. Surely the Western had not at last “fallen down” on its first obligation at Bonepile! For since the coming of the rails they had regarded the station operator as a sort of social adjunct to the ranch—the keeper of an open house of hospitality, their daily paper, the final learned authority on all matters of politics and sport. And if this latest change of operators had brought them—
Muskoka spoke again, and the worst was realized.
“Well, you gal-faced little dude!”
The cowmen crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka’s board shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn.
Muskoka settled forward on his elbows.
“Are you a real operator?” he inquired.
In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself Wilson responded in the affirmative.
“Actooal, real, male operator?”
The cluster of bronzed faces guffawed loudly.
“But y’ don’t play kiards, do you?” Muskoka asked incredulously. “Now I bet you don’t. Or smoke? Or chew? Or any of them wicked—”