"Huh!" Pete chuckled derisively. "Ain't goin' home t'night."
"You've got to get some sleep: that's the only way for you to straighten up."
"Well," agreed Pete, rising, "then I'll go over to the barn 'nd sleep with the horse."
"Aren't you afraid he'll step on you?" asked Nat, amused.
"Maybe he will," Pete replied fairly, "but I'd ruther risk that 'n m' wife."
He swerved and lurched toward the door. "Thanks, doc, 'nd g'night," he mumbled, and incontinently collided with Roland Barnette.
Roland was working under a full head of steam, apparently; his naturally sanguine complexion was several shades darker than the normal, and he was seething with repressed emotion—excitement, anticipated triumph, jealousy, envy and hatred: all centring upon the hapless head of Nat Duncan. Plunging along with his head down, his thoughts wholly preoccupied with his grievance and its remedy, he bumped into Willing and cannoned off, recognising him with an angry growl. The result of this was to stay Pete's departure; he grasped the frame of the door and steadied himself, glaring round at the aggressor.
"'Lo, Roland," he said, focussing his vision. "Whash masser?"
Roland disregarded him entirely. "Say, you!" he snorted, catching sight of Nat. "I want to see you."
"Oh?" Nat drawled exasperatingly. He had never had much use for Roland, and now with hidden joy he read the signs of passion on the boy's inflamed countenance. Happy he would be, thought Nat, if Roland were to be delivered into his hands that night. He owed the world a grudge, just then, and needed nothing more than an object to wreak his vengeance upon. "Well, I'll stake you to a good long look," he added sweetly.