“What is it makes ‘em stare, Jacques?” asked Belward, with a humorous sidelong glance.
Jacques looked seriously at the bright pommel of his master’s saddle and the shining stirrups and spurs, dug a heel into the tender skin of his broncho, and replied:
“Too much silver all at once.”
He tossed his curling black hair, showing up the gold rings in his ears, and flicked the red-and-gold tassels of his boots.
“You think that’s it, eh?” rejoined Belward, as he tossed a shilling to a beggar.
“Maybe, too, your great Saracen to this tot of a broncho, and the grand homme to little Jacques Brillon.” Jacques was tired and testy.
The other laid his whip softly on the half-breed’s shoulder.
“See, my peacock: none of that. You’re a spanking good servant, but you’re in a country where it’s knuckle down man to master; and what they do here you’ve got to do, or quit—go back to your pea-soup and caribou. That’s as true as God’s in heaven, little Brillon. We’re not on the buffalo trail now. You understand?”
Jacques nodded.
“Hadn’t you better say it?”