The sunfish did not move, but sent a slow stream of smoke down the wind, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"I'm not your man," came the calm retort. "Also, I'm quite satisfied where I am. If you want a word with me you are at liberty to trot up here; but I'd advise you to take that white coat off first. I'm liable to muss it up if you get me too excited."
The Englishman stared for a moment, evidently surprised at the voice and accent of the sunfish, which held quite as much authority as did his own and which betrayed culture despite the challenging veneer of insolence.
Meanwhile, the scattered sunfish and cowpunchers took note of their visitor's stoppage and, as the last of the cattle were shoved into their pen, a little crowd collected about the gang, scenting trouble with unmingled joy. Seeing that one of their comrades had taken the burden upon his own shoulders, they encouraged him distantly.
"Don't youse take any lip off'n him, pal!"
"Tell the bleedin', bloody toff 'is pants is tore, 'Ammer!"
"Ain't his little feet pretty——"
The murmuring died away with startling abruptness, for one of the cow-punchers shouted over from the pen, with callous indifference to the feelings of the visitor;
"Shut up, you stiffs! That's his lordship what laid out the Brighton Blighter last night. I seen him do it!"
Amid the ensuing silence Harcourt flushed darkly and walked to the gangway, the men drawing back suddenly from his mild look.