Annixter grunted scornfully.
“Did you get the message I sent you by Presley?” he began.
Tactless, blunt, and direct, Annixter was quite capable of calling even Magnus a fool to his face. But before he could proceed, S. Behrman in his single buggy turned into the gate, and driving leisurely up to the porch halted on the other side of Magnus's team.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he remarked, nodding to the two Derricks as though he had not seen them earlier in the day. “Mr. Annixter, how do you do?”
“What in hell do YOU want?” demanded Annixter with a stare.
S. Behrman hiccoughed slightly and passed a fat hand over his waistcoat.
“Why, not very much, Mr. Annixter,” he replied, ignoring the belligerency in the young ranchman's voice, “but I will have to lodge a protest against you, Mr. Annixter, in the matter of keeping your line fence in repair. The sheep were all over the track last night, this side the Long Trestle, and I am afraid they have seriously disturbed our ballast along there. We—the railroad—can't fence along our right of way. The farmers have the prescriptive right of that, so we have to look to you to keep your fence in repair. I am sorry, but I shall have to protest——” Annixter returned to the hammock and stretched himself out in it to his full length, remarking tranquilly:
“Go to the devil!”
“It is as much to your interest as to ours that the safety of the public——”
“You heard what I said. Go to the devil!”