The ranchman and Big Thompson drew their boxes in front of the stove, smoked their pipes, and, without taking the trouble to ascertain whether or not the boy was asleep, discussed him and his affairs with the utmost freedom.
The guide was talkative enough now, and Oscar wondered if he would use his tongue as freely when they were alone in the hills.
“Who is this young fellow, anyhow?” was the ranchman’s first question.
“Oh, he’s one of them thar crazy loons who aint got nothin’ better to do than tramp about the country, an’ ketch all sorts of critters, an’ stuff ’em full of hay or something,” said Big Thompson.
And the tone in which the reply was made led Oscar to believe that the guide had anything but an exalted opinion of a boy who could pass his time in that way.
“Then he really is a taxidermist, is he?”
“Which?” exclaimed Big Thompson.
“I mean that he is what he pretends to be?”
“I reckon. They called him a college-sharp down to the post; an’ the kurn, he took him in the minute he came thar, an’ treated him like he was a little juke, or one of them thar nobby fellers from across the water. If it hadn’t been fur the kurn, ye wouldn’t ’a’ ketched me here with him.”
Oscar might have heard much more of this sort of talk if he had chosen to listen; but, as he was not in the habit of playing eavesdropper, he turned his face to the wall, drew the blankets over his head, and composed himself to sleep.