“Yes,” assented Gringo, “I suppose you wouldn’t find a finer pair in the whole state of New York.”
“Do you like them better than the little girl, Cyria?” I asked.
Old Gringo wrinkled his forehead. “I never think about that,” he said. “They’re all ours, and I guess the mister and missis don’t think of it either.”
“That’s good,” I replied. “I’d hate to see the little brown baby made uncomfortable.”
Gringo chuckled. “Those were great times back in New York, but I’m glad I’m in this army.”
“There’s no doubt about it, you are firmly wedded to country life now,” I said.
“Wedded, I guess so, and I often snicker to think how I’d have fought to a finish any dog in the Bowery that told me I’d get to praise the country and run down the city.”
“And you thought you’d get bored here,” I said with a sly laugh.
“Bored,” and he grunted happily, “what chance have I? It’s up at daylight with mister, and out to the stables and barn, laying out the day’s work for the men, examining the stock to see they’re all first class—by the way, mister’s going to make a fortune raising colts, ’cause the war cleaned out all the horses—then in the house for breakfast—I say, Boy, things do taste good out here in this clear air—then in town in the car, out again, and pottering around after missis and little Cyria, out in the gardens and after the hens till lunch time, then a drive in for mister, and a stop in the village with him.”