“Now, boys,” he shouted, “let's have some music.”
“'Everybody works but father,
And he sets around all day.'—
Whoop her up!”
They whooped her up. I stepped out into the road.
“Here!” I shouted. “Stop that! Stop it, do you hear! Kendrick, what is all this?”
The song stopped in the middle of the verse. Zeb jerked the reins and shouted “Whoa!” Hallet and his chorus turned. They had been gazing at the big house, but now they turned and looked at me.
“Hello, Ros!” said Kendrick, still grinning, but rather sheepishly. “How be you? Got quite a band aboard, ain't I.”
“Hello!” cried Hallet. “It's Ros himself! Ros, you're all RIGHT! Hi, boys! let's give three cheers for the feller that don't toady to nobody—millionaires nor nobody else—hooray for Ros Paine!”
The cheering that followed was not quite as loud as the previous outburst—some of the “gang” may have noticed my attitude and expression—but it was loud enough. Involuntarily I glanced toward the Colton mansion. I saw no one at the windows or on the veranda, and I was thankful for that. The blood rushed to my face. I was so angry that, for the moment, I could not speak.
Tim Hallet appeared to consider my silence and my crimson cheeks as acknowledgments of the compliment just paid me.