“If it's your idea,” pursued Mr. McLean, alluringly, as the three took cautious steps nearer the curb, “that blue, clasped hands in a circle of red stars gives the bearer the right to put folks in the jug—why, I'll get somebody else to black my boots for a dollar.”
The three made a swift rush, fell on simultaneous knees, and clattering their boxes down, began to spit in an industrious circle.
“Easy!” wheedled Mr. McLean, and they looked up at him, staring and fascinated. “Not having three feet,” said the cow-puncher, always grave and slow, “I can only give two this here job.”
“He's got a big pistol and a belt!” exulted the leader, who had precociously felt beneath Lin's coat.
“You're a smart boy,” said Lin, considering him, “and yu' find a man out right away. Now you stand off and tell me all about myself while they fix the boots—and a dollar goes to the quickest through.”
Young Billy and his tow-headed competitor flattened down, each to a boot, with all their might, while the leader ruefully contemplated Mr. McLean.
“That's a Colt.45 you've got,” ventured he.
“Right again. Some day, maybe, you'll be wearing one of your own, if the angels don't pull yu' before you're ripe.”
“I'm through!” sang out Towhead, rising in haste.
Small Billy was struggling still, but leaped at that, the two heads bobbing to a level together; and Mr. McLean, looking down, saw that the arrangement had not been a good one for the boots.