"Does he stay up t’ the Creek with you?" asked Hank wonderingly.
"Says he will," laughed Wilson. "Says he’s wanted for years t’ try his luck with quartz!"
"Must ’a’ begun wantin’ then when he was a baby," remarked Hank succinctly. "Where’s his ma and pa?"
Wishing shrugged his shoulders and balanced a quantity of pork and potatoes on the blade of his knife. "Search me! He says there’s no one to hender him doin’ what he pleases, and so I take it he’s dropped out of some fairy orphanage som’ers where they have gold t’ burn. I’m fallin’ on his neck more’n I’m askin’ him questions that he don’t want t’ answer. Less is an all right sort, you’ll find, but he ain’t long on information."
At this point Wishing’s garrulity suffered an interruption from the entrance of his young partner.
Leslie Jones walked with the erect bearing that Aunt Anne coveted for Ross. Buttoning his short corduroy jacket over a soft flannel shirt, across the front of which was suspended a large gold chain, he ran his fingers around inside his collar and looked about impatiently.
Ross, attending strictly to his work, did not look up. Hank, sitting on a bench opposite Wilson, spread his elbows yet further apart on the table and indicated a place beside him.
"Set down and fall to, young feller!"
"I’ll wash up first," returned Leslie in a tone which had a decided edge. His manner plainly indicated his desire to be waited on.
Hank raised his eyebrows and waved a hand vaguely toward the stove. "There’s pans ’n’ water. Help yerself. Guess there’s a towel hikin’ about som’ers in the corner. My dozen best handmade ’uns ain’t come in yet from the laundry!"