But not quite. At a post in front of the little white house stood two cow ponies, saddled, with ropes at the pommels and blankets cinched behind. One of these, Roy knew, from its size, must be his mount. He started for the door and then hesitated. Everything on him felt so new that he almost had stage fright.
“Waugh!” rang out from the next room. “Chuck’s ready.”
“Waugh!” yelled Roy with assumed boldness and throwing open the door, he dashed into the room, whirled about in imitation of a ballet dancer and then, clumsily drawing his new revolver, struck an attitude of aiming through the window.
“Well, by the great horn spoon,” shouted Weston.
“Land o’ mercy,” added Mrs. Weston, who had just entered with a venison steak—hot and covered with fried potatoes.
“You shore air the Wild West picter,” laughed the man.
“He’s jist right,” broke in Mrs. Weston. “That’s all right, Mr. Osborne. Don’t you stand fur no jokin’.”
“Why?” exclaimed Roy, in an alarmed voice. “Aren’t these things all right?”
“All right?” answered Mr. Weston, “shore they’s all right; but did you’ ever see a city man go into a country town but what the yaps had to make fun o’ his clothes?”