On his part, Jake looked upon a well-built man five inches his inferior in stature, but a man of good proportions, with a pair of shoulders that suggested possibilities. But it was the steady look in the steel-blue eyes which told him most. There was a simple directness in them which told of a man unaccustomed to any browbeating; and, as he gazed into them, he made a mental note that this newcomer must be reduced to a proper humility at the earliest opportunity.
There was no pretense of courtesy between them. Neither offered to shake hands. Jake blurted out his greeting in a vicious tone.
“Say, didn’t you hear me callin’?” he asked sharply.
“I did.” And the New Englander looked quietly into the eyes before him, but without the least touch of bravado or of yielding.
“Then why in h—— didn’t you come?”
“I was not to know you were calling me.”
“Not to know?” retorted the other roughly. “I guess there aren’t two guys with pants like yours around the ranch. Now, see right here, young feller, you’ll just get a grip on the fact that I’m foreman of this layout, and, as far as the ‘hands’ are concerned, I’m boss. When I call, you come—and quick.”
The man towered over Tresler in a bristling attitude. His hands were aggressively thrust into his jacket pockets, and he emphasized his final words with a scowl. And it was his attitude that roused Tresler; the words were the words of an overweening bully, and might have been laughed at, but the attitude said more, and no man likes to be browbeaten. His anger leapt, and, though he held himself tightly, it found expression in the biting emphasis of his reply.
“When I’m one of the ‘hands,’ yes,” he said incisively.