Ranse went up to Buck Rabb, the camp boss, and spoke briefly.
“He’s a plumb buzzard,” said Buck. “He won’t work, and he’s the low-downest passel of inhumanity I ever see. I didn’t know what you wanted done with him, Ranse, so I just let him set. That seems to suit him. He’s been condemned to death by the boys a dozen times, but I told ’em maybe you was savin’ him for the torture.”
Ranse took off his coat.
“I’ve got a hard job before me, Buck, I reckon, but it has to be done. I’ve got to make a man out of that thing. That’s what I’ve come to camp for.”
He went up to Curly.
“Brother,” he said, “don’t you think if you had a bath it would allow you to take a seat in the company of your fellow-man with less injustice to the atmosphere.”
“Run away, farmer,” said Curly, sardonically. “Willie will send for nursey when he feels like having his tub.”
The charco, or water hole, was twelve yards away. Ranse took one of Curly’s ankles and dragged him like a sack of potatoes to the brink. Then with the strength and sleight of a hammer-throw he hurled the offending member of society far into the lake.
Curly crawled out and up the bank spluttering like a porpoise.
Ranse met him with a piece of soap and a coarse towel in his hands.