"Don't mind me, Sarg," returned the crestfallen constable. "I was just amusin' the pup here. I'm one of the never-quits, even if I do beef about quittin' sometimes."
Childress was as easy going, when in command, as any N.C.O. in the service; he knew, liked and appreciated Paddy Mahaffy; in fact, he had asked to have that particular constable detailed to him on this Fire Weed case. But it seemed to him that the time had come for a bit of discipline.
"Just what, Pad, is the matter with this as a post of the Royal Mounted?" he demanded with a severity that the constable did not recognize as mock.
"In the first place, Sergeant——" began Mahaffy.
"This, right here, the 'Open A' Ranch of John Childress, Esq., is the first place," cut in the sergeant. "What's the matter with this as a post?"
Thus abruptly deprived of his beloved preambles, the constable literally was driven into the open.
"There's no roof on the post, for onct," he declared.
"And no rain in sight until September—why bother now with a roof? We may not be here when the rain comes."
The Irisher waggled his graying head. "An' as for that, where's there a sign of a uniform on me?"
"The overall and jumper becomes you, Padraic," insisted Childress. "You've got to show more cause than that to have your complaint considered."