"Well, Nat, how are you getting on?" he asked a boy of about fifteen years old who was lying on the ground with his horse's rein over his arm near them.
"Oh, I'm all right," the boy replied; "been here a week, and getting pretty tired of this job, you bet, with nothing to do but just to lie here. Blast all camps, I say!"
"You ought to be at school, you young imp," Hugh laughed.
"I would just as soon be doing that as lying here," the boy said. "It will be all right when I get to be a cow-boy, but there ain't much fun about this. Just come in?"
"Yes."
"Who is with you?"
Hugh gave the names.
"Broncho Harry ain't a bad sort," the boy said. "The others ain't of much account."
"You had better tell them so," Hugh said with a smile.
"I would tell them if I thought fit," the boy said angrily. "You don't suppose that I'm afraid of any of that mob?"