The Youngest Bad Man took hold of the brake rod again and steadied himself. The Worst Bad Man looked at the wounded godfather in vague surprise.
“I never figgered on that at all,” he said simply. “I was thinkin' about how we're to feed him. I'm for tubbin' him all right, but——”
He held up the two canteens. His pause was eloquent.
“But he's such a little feller it won't take much,” protested The Wounded Bad Man. “He'll fit nice in a dishpan.”
“I wish he was old enough to stagger along a few days without bathin',” mourned The Youngest Bad Man. “Maybe he can. I don't know a thing about infants; but if he must be bathed, why I guess we'd better——”
“I 'lowed to ask his mother a few questions regardin' his up-keep and what-all,” interrupted The Wounded Bad Man apologetically, “but I clean forgot.”
The Worst Bad Man wagged his head as if to convey the impression that this was a pardonable oversight indeed. He was thinking.
“It stands to reason,” he announced presently, “that this infant's mother naturally made some provision for his reception into camp. It's my opinion that gettin' a bath is the least o' the troubles confrontin' our godson. He's just naturally got to eat, an' wear somethin' better'n a towel that'll plum scratch the hide off'n him. There ought to be somethin' for Robert boy in that tail-box.”