It was the Chinaman, Pong, sounding his call for breakfast, in accordance with the usage of the plains.
"Grub pi-i-i-le!" he finished in a lower tone, after which his head quickly disappeared under the cover of the wagon.
By the time the cowmen and Pony Riders had refreshed themselves at the spring near which the outfit had camped, a steaming hot breakfast had been spread on the ground, with a slicker for a table cloth.
Three cowboys fell to with a will, gulping down their breakfast in a hurry that they might ride out and relieve the fourth guard on the herd.
"You boys don't have to swallow your food whole," smiled the foreman, observing that the Pony Riders seemed to think they were expected to hurry through their meal as well. "Those fellows have to go out. Take your time. The fourth guard has to eat yet, so there is plenty of time. How did you all sleep?"
"Fine," chorused the boys.
"And you, Mr. Professor?"
"Surprisingly well. It is astonishing with how little a man can get along when he has to."
"Who is the wrangler this morning?" asked the foreman, glancing about at his men.
"I am," spoke up Shorty Savage promptly.