“Aw, say, deacon blue-belly, come off the roost. Say, fellus, let’s eat.”
CHAPTER XXV—ON THE DRIVE
Joe Smeaton’s regard for Swickey had been increased rather than diminished by her kindly but decisive answer to his suit. “If they ever was angels what wore blue dresses, she’s one of ’em,” he confided to himself, as he beckoned mysteriously to the cookee. The rest of the men had already filed out of the camp and down toward the river.
“Here, Sliver, want to make a quarter?” The lad ambled toward him. “Sure ting, Joe,—it’s up to you.”
“When you git through here I want you to skin over to Hoss Avery’s place and tell his gal Swickey—now quit grinnin’ and git this straight—thet they’s goin’ to be some doin’s down the gorge to-day. Harrigan’s got his back up and says he’ll bust thet jam or every log-roller on the drive—which means, speakin’ easy-like, thet he’s goin’ to try. Tell Swickey Avery to bring her picture-takin’ machine, with the compliments of Joe Smeaton. Savvy? Here’s the two-bits.”
“I’m on, Red,” replied the cookee, dodging a lunge from the lumberman and pocketing the quarter. “Fix up purty, for she’ll be lookin’ at you.”
The cookee sped or rather fled on his errand. Smeaton looked about, then went to his bunk and drew out a soft, pearl-gray hat with silk-bound edges and wide band. He had purchased it in a moment of exuberance when the possibility of Swickey’s saying “yes” was unclouded. He straightened it out, gazed at it admiringly for a moment, and then, flinging his old hat in the corner, he set the pearl-gray felt jauntily on his shock of red hair.
“’T ain’t every day a feller gits his picture tooken by a gal, or thet kind of a gal,” he muttered, as he strode from the camp with a fine swagger.
“And look who’s here!” cried one of the men, as he joined them at the riverside.
“Whoo-pee!” came in a Piute chorus from the boys.