Several days after Harrigan’s departure, Smeaton called to Avery, who was in the kitchen mixing biscuits. The old man came in, arms bare to the elbow and a dash of flour on the end of his nose.
“Wal, Joe?”
Smeaton twisted his shoulders uncomfortably, but said nothing.
“Wantin’ a drink?”
Smeaton nodded.
The old man went out and returned with the dipper. “Reckon I hain’t jest a fust-class nuss,” he said, “but you’ll have to put up with me fur a spell yit. How’s the leg feelin’?”
“Can’t kick,” replied Smeaton.
“I persume not,” replied Avery, with a touch of irony.
“Say, Hoss—I—a feller—you wouldn’t say as I was much on looks, would you?”
“Not if I didn’t want to put a dent in my rep’tation fur callin’ hosses hosses.”