It was the Wagon Master, and his calmness was that of exhaustion. He had yelled and sworn himself dry, and was collecting another fund of abuse to spout at men and animals.
"Here, why don't you git a move on them wagons?" said Si hotly, for he was angered at the man's apparent indifference.
"'Tend to your own business and I'll tend to mine," said the Wagon Master, sullenly, without removing his pipe or looking at Si.
"Look here, I'm a Corporal, commanding the advance guard," said Si. "I order you!"
This seemed to open the fountains of the man's soul.
"You order me?" he yelled, "you splay-footed, knock-kneed, chuckled-headed paper-collared, whitegloved sprat from a milk-sick prairie. Corporal! I outrank all the Corporals from here to Christmas of next year."
"The gentleman seems to have something on his mind," grinned Shorty. "Mebbe his dinner didn't set well."
"Shorty?" inquired Si, "how does a Wagon Master rank? Seems to me nobody lower'n a Brigadier-General should dare talk to me that way."
"Dunno," answered Shorty, doubtfully. "Seems as if I'd heard some of them Wagon Masters rank as Kurnels. He swears like one."
"Corporal!" shouted the Wagon Master with infinite scorn. "Measly $2-a-month water toter for the camp-guard, order me!" and he went off into a rolling stream of choice "army language."