“And to you, great chiefs, the blessing of the harvest moon,” came from Gus. “What brings you-all to the abode of the humble?”
“Make talk,” Teddy grunted. “Where do you get that ‘humble’ stuff? Been getting more love letters, Gus?”
“You tell ’em,” Pop chuckled. “Pop” was the oldest puncher on the X Bar X. He claimed to have invented the brand of the Manley ranch when the present owner’s father first settled it. Thus he felt entitled to a certain consideration from the “youngsters,” as he called the other hands. This respect he often sought to enforce by criticizing the rising generation, much to his later dismay. In the words of Nick, they “hopped all over him.”
“Never mind about my love letters,” Gus responded, grinning. “I guess Nick, here, can tell us all we want to know about love. He’s the hombre that writes the ‘advice to the lovelorn’ in the Hawley Register; ain’t you, Nick? An’ I know where he gets his dope from, too! Me, if I liked Norine as well as you do, I’d marry the girl, that’s what I’d do! Yessir!”
“Dry up,” Nick growled. Norine was the daughter of Mrs. Moore, a widow, who for many years had been the housekeeper at the ranch house of the X Bar X. Norine was Irish—and pretty. Nick was not the only puncher on the ranch who had fallen a victim to her charms.
“Yep, these kids amuse me,” Pop chuckled, sliding gently down the side of the bunk-house until he sat upon the ground, when he proceeded to light and fill a pipe. “They sure tickle me! Talkin’ about love! Huh! Why, you birds don’t know what love means. Me, I had experience. First gal I ever loved was the dar’ter of a bouncer in a drinkin’ place over Tacoma way. She was a gal fer yuh! Shoot? That gal could shoot the eye outta a fly at ten paces. That’s the reason I didn’t marry her. She was too good. The next one was—”
“Aw, take a rest!” Nick exploded. “How do you get thataway? Must think you’re King Solomon, or somebody! Pop, there’s only one trouble with you. You’re too verbose.”
“Here!” the old man sat upright, startled. “Don’t go callin’ names at me, Nick, ’cause I won’t have it. I’m tellin’ yuh now, I—”
“Take it easy, Pop,” Roy broke in. “That doesn’t mean anything to get sore about. It means you talk too much.”
“Oh!” Pop returned, mollified. “I thought it meant somethin’ else. Got to be careful these days, with all the youngsters readin’ dictionaries. When I was your age, Nick, all my knowledge I got out of Harvey’s Encyclopedia an’ an almanack containin’ the names of every bird, animal an’ fish in creation, with a remedy for all ills the flesh is heir to. Yep, an’ she stood me in good stead, too. I remember the time—”