"Name one of them for me," was Packard's quiet way of accepting his old foreman's ultimatum. "I'll put him on at least temporarily."
"There's Yellow Barbee," suggested Royce. "Somethin' of a kid, maybe kind of wild an' harum-scarum, maybe not worth much. But he ain't a Blenham man an' he did me a good turn."
Already Packard was on his feet, going to the door.
"Barbee!" he shouted. "Oh, Barbee!"
The bunk-house door opened, emitting its stream of light.
"Call me?" came Barbee's cool young voice, impudent now as always.
"Yes, come here a minute, will you?"
Barbee came, his wide hat far back upon his tight little curls, his swagger pronounced, his sweet blue eyes shining softly—his lips battered and bruised and already swelling.
"Come in and shut the door," said Packard.
Barbee entered and stepped across the room to lounge with his elbow on the chimney-piece, looking curiously from Packard to Royce.