"Yes, but—"
"It ain't yourn." Ever aggressive, Shorty finished, "You don't want to fight the outfit the day your boy's agoin' away." And he pushed Jim aside as he carried the valise over to Grouchy, who was holding up a villainous-looking jack-knife to the child.
"Say, old man," the slow, lumbering ranchman labored, "you wanted this for a long time. I wouldn't give it to you, 'cause I was afraid you might cut yourself, but I've been a-savin' it for you. When you get bigger, you can make things with it."
Grouchy threw the knife into the bag, while Shorty, deeply touched, muttered, "That's the longest speech Grouchy ever pulled off." After all, the box with its trinket had been a gift to him; he must give something to the child that had been his very own.
"Say," he began, "I'm in on this; he's admired my saddle for a long time."
But Jim protested, "Shorty, what on earth is he to do with it?"
And Shorty answered, as he flung his saddle into the wagon. "I'll bet they 'ain't got nothin' to touch it in England."
Bill approvingly observed, "That's right; he's a cow-boy and needs a real saddle."
Quietly Andy pressed forward and diffidently began, "Und say—und say—und sure—the boy you know—und, by golly, he's got to have something to remember old Andy by—fadder or no fadder." As he spoke he drew from his belt his revolver, carefully emptied it, and held it up to Hal, whose eyes gleamed with joy at this especially desired gift. "Maybe dot don'd tickle him, eh?"
"Andy, is that sure for me?" Hal gasped.