Bud's blue eyes twinkled as he waddled to the living-room. Young Adams was handy around a kitchen. He had laid plates for two, knew how to punch dough, was willing to wash the dishes without a hint, and had fed the horse in the corral.
"He trots right along, like he knew where he was goin'," Bud said to himself. "I like his looks—but that ain't always a sign."
Lorry whistled as he dried the dishes. Bud was seated in a huge armchair when Lorry entered the room. Shoop seemed to pay no attention to Bondsman, who whined and occasionally scratched on the door.
"Funny thing happened this mornin'," said Shoop, settling himself in his chair. "I was ridin' down the ole Milk Ranch Trail when I looked up and seen a bobcat lopin' straight for me. The cat didn't see me, but my hoss stopped, waitin' for me to shoot. Well, that kittycat come right along till I could 'a' almost roped him. Bondsman—that's my dog—never seen him, neither, till I hollered. You ought to seen that cat start back without losin' a jump. I like to fell off the hoss, laughin'. Bondsman he lit out—"
"I'll let him in," said Lorry, moving toward the door.
"—After that cat," continued Shoop, "but the cat never treed, I reckon, for pretty soon back comes Bondsman, lookin' as disgusted as a hen in a rainstorm. 'We're gettin' too old,' I tells Bondsman—"
"Ain't you goin' to let him in?" queried Lorry.
"—We're gettin' too old to chase bobcats just for fun," concluded
Shoop. "What was you sayin'?"
"Your dog wants to come in."
"That's right. Now I thought you was listenin' to me."