He followed up his words with his unpleasant laugh, and it was the sting the youthful leader needed.
He turned fiercely on the speaker, his momentary paralysis all vanished.
“Ef I’m spokesman,” he cried, “guess we don’t need no buttin’ in from Beasley Melford.” Then he turned again quickly. “Astin’ your pardon, miss,” he added apologetically.
“That’s all right,” said Joan, smiling amiably. “What are you ‘spokesman’ for?”
The boy grinned foolishly.
“Can’t rightly say, missie.” Then he jerked his head in his comrades’ direction. “Guess if you was to ast them, they’d call theirselves men.”
“I didn’t say ‘who,’ I said ‘what,’” Joan protested, with a laugh at his desperately serious manner.
“‘What?’” he murmured, smearing his dirty forehead with a horny hand in the effort of his task. Then he brightened. “Why, gener’ly speakin’,” he went on, with sudden enthusiasm, “they ain’t much better’n skippin’ sheep. Y’ see they want to but darsent. So—wal—they jest set me up to sling the hot air.”
The girl looked appealingly at the rough faces for assistance. But instead of help she only beheld an expression of general discontent turned on the unconscious back of the spokesman. And coming back to the boy she pursued the only course possible.
“I—I don’t think I quite understand,” she said.