“Now,” continued Tim, “you can do anything jist as good as him—except bindin', of course. He's a terror at bindin', but at pitchin' and shockin' and loadin' you're jist as good.”
“But, Tim, that's all nonsense. Perkins isn't such a fool as to hate me because I can keep up my end.”
“He don't like you,” said Tim stubbornly.
“But why? Why in the name of common sense?”
“Well,” said Tim, summing up the situation, “before you come he used to be the hull thing. Now he's got to play second fiddle.”
But Cameron remained unenlightened.
“Oh, pshaw!” continued Tim, making further concessions to his friend's stupidity. “At the dances, at the raisin's, runnin', jumpin'—everythin'—Perkins used to be the King Bee. Now—” Tim's silence furnished an impressive close to the contrast. “Why! They all think you are just fine!” said Tim, with a sudden burst of confidence.
“They?”
“All the boys. Yes, and the girls, too,” said Tim, allowing his solemn face the unusual luxury of a smile.
“The girls?”