“Say, Paul! Don’t you do it!” rang out the girl’s voice, till the whole bunk house heard. “Why do you let that big stiff boss you around?”
Paul stood looking at her in mild surprise. “Why? Well, he is boss, isn’t he?” he said, a slow smile coming to his face.
“You’re hired to ride herd, not to lick his boots.”
“Why, I don’t——”
“You do!” cried Molly, flinging down the reins on the neck of her temper. “You do! Tell him to go to hell!”
“All right,” said Paul cheerfully. Then, raising his voice, he sang out, “‘Squatty,’ you go to hell!” and moved off with his pony to the corral.
A high tide of strongly sulphurous and quite unintelligible language preceded “Squatty” from the bunk house, ending in the quite intelligible question, “What’s that you say, kid?”
“Didn’t you hear?” inquired Paul innocently, as he strolled on his way.
“Look here! you blankety, blank young pup, I’ll knock your blank, blankety blank head off.”
Paul stopped abruptly, swung his horse round, and leaned up against him.