Mr. McLean nodded. “Turruble,” said he.
“You’re a Wells Fargo detective,” asserted the leader.
“Play your harp,” said Lin.
“Are you a—a desperaydo?” whispered Towhead.
“Oh, my!” observed Mr. McLean, sadly; “what has our Jack been readin’?”
“He’s a cattle-man!” cried Billy. “I seen his heels.”
“That’s you!” said the discovered puncher, with approval. “You’ll do. But I bet you can’t tell me what we wearers of this badge have sworn to do this night.”
At this they craned their necks and glared at him.
“We—are—sworn (don’t yu’ jump, now, and give me away)—sworn—to—blow off three bootblacks to a dinner.”