"What the Sam Hill are you, anyhow?" said the boss, straddling the fence. "A circus or a town cowboy?"
Now, a "town cowboy" is a term of reproach among us, signifying a young man who never did range work, but wears the clothes and does trick roping for the delectation of visitors. Ultimately he joins a Wild West show and instructs the rising generation.
"I reckon you're cleverer than me," Johnson said, "but you ain't awake to me yet. Turn over. You're on your back."
Without concerning himself further about the boss, he clambered out on to the platform and threw the borrowed rope to Reb. We saw that he was tall and big of bone, and his shoulders had an indolent droop. Although he could not have been over twenty-five, his hair was plentifully flecked with gray.
Presently Buffalo Jim, who was keeping tally of the cattle going through the chute, lost count and admitted frankly that he could not say whether there were thirty-seven or forty in the car. He tried to appear grave in confessing this, but was unable to repress a snigger. Everything would have gone smoothly, he contended, had he not chanced to recall a story Uncle Hi Millet had told him the previous night.
"If that feller could count up to fifty," said Johnson, in an aside to the buyer, "he would be back in Texas still, a-teaching school."
"Hello, Lafe!" the other exclaimed. "Where did you drop from? Want a job? Seventy a month?"
"Eighty."
"No, sir; seventy."
"Eighty. I got a lot of unfinished business down the line unless."