“Is he too big for you to bounce?” roared Peter. “That’s a pretty story to come tell me!”
“No, he ain’t,” said the other; “but I haven’t got the bouncin’ of him. He’s not in my camp. The young men have took him in; but I expect he’ll come over with them as soon as it’s done rainin’, for when that happens they’re bound to come themselves.”
“Look here, Phil,” said Peter, “is he dressed in black?”
“Yes, he is,” said the guide.
Mr. Sadler slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “Phil Matlack,” he shouted, “that’s my favorite tramp. I never had a man here who paid his bill in work as he did. It was cash down, and good money. Not a minute of wood-splitting more or less than the market-price for meals and bed. I’d like to have a tramp like that come along about twice a week. But I tell you, Phil, he ain’t no tramp. Couldn’t you see that? None of them loafers ever worked as he did.”
“He may not be a tramp,” said Matlack, “but he’s trampin’. What are you goin’ to do about him? Let him stay there?”
“What’s he doin’ now?” asked Sadler.
“He’s cookin’ for those two young men.”
“Well, they need some one to do it for them, and they didn’t want to go to the expense of a guide. Let the parson alone for a day or two, and if he does anything out of the way just you take him by one ear and Martin take him by the other and bring him to me. I’ll attend to him. What’s the next trouble?”
“That’s out of my camp, too,” said Matlack, “but I’m bound to report it. The bicycle fellow that you hired a gun to don’t know the fust thing about usin’ it, and the next thing you’ll hear will be that he’s shot his pardner, who’s worth six of him.”