“Oh, I’ll do that!” cried Jim, raising himself on his elbow.
“You?” jeered Bud. “You look like it! Now, you lie right down there and get well—that’s your play. It would make us feel as if we’d wasted our time if we had to turn to and bury you after all the trouble we’ve had. You’re good for two weeks in that bunk, old horse.”
“Two weeks! I can’t, Bud; I can’t! I must get up before that!”
“You lie down there—hear me?”
“But I’ll have to see to things around—you can’t stay.”
“I stay right here till you’re well.”
“But the mail?”
“The devil take the mail—or anybody else that wants the job. Uncle Sammy won’t hop on to my collar button, because of the fine send-off my friend the inspector’ll give. And somebody will get orry-eyed up in town, and come down to find what’s loose. He’ll take the bags then. It’s all settled.”
“But there are other things—”
“Let ’em rest. Now I’m off to do the chores—oh, say, speaking of mail, here’s a letter for you I forgot all about in the excitement—here you go. Come along, Ches, and help me carry wood.”