“Sneezing dusty,” answered Kirke; “I don’t believe the people that live in that shanty over yonder have to spend any money for snuff.”
As he spoke he pointed to a wretched hut a little removed from the highway, and entirely surrounded by dirt.
“Mateo lives there,” said Paul carelessly.
“Who’s Mateo?”
“Mateo? Oh, he’s a lazy, no-account Indian, who helps sometimes on the ranch.”
“I wonder if he isn’t the fellow that mended our thill for us the other day?” mused Kirke. “We broke down somewhere near here. How does he look? Is he fat?”
“Fat as butter. He ought to be, you know, considering they call him a greaser.”
Kirke giggled, and Paul looked highly gratified at the success of his witticism. He thought he might get up quite a reputation as a humorist, if Pauline didn’t always say the funny things before he had a chance. He was glad to feel that he was entertaining Kirke: he couldn’t bear to see the boy so downhearted.
The mules were frisky that morning, and reached the end of the journey in excellent season.
“Heap soon!” grinned Sing Wung, as he alighted upon the ground, apparently not at all disturbed because Kirke had taken no notice of him whatever.