"It's this—why shouldn't we all be Wild West cowboys, with Buffalo Bill as the head of the band?"
"Bravo! Hurrah!" cried some of the Squirms.
"I reckon it would be tophole," went on Osbody, flushing with excitement. "We'd have such fun as never was. I'd be Buffalo Bill——"
"Of course!" Grain dryly commented.
"And we'd go on the trail and hunt buffaloes and scalp Red Indians, and—and—well, do all those topping things you see 'em perform at the picture-shows. Now, boys, all in favour of a Buffalo Bill band, hands up!"
Shouts of approval signified an almost unanimous consent.
"Then squat round the fire, my cowboys, and we'll talk over the details," said Osbody.
"Fire's too low," Grain said. "Gone down while we were doing the tomahawk crawl. Wants something on it to make a rattling good flare. What price the fibre-matting which is chucking about over yonder? Jove, it wouldn't half burn."
"So would our ears when the masters had finished clouting them," Osbody observed. "Matting doesn't grow on trees. The gardeners have left it there."
"Shows they've no use for it, then," Grain persisted. "Come on, boys, bring it to the fire."