“Say,” he cried, “of all the blamed fules I’d say we three was the craziest ever pupped.”
Sandy turned inquiring, contemptuous eyes in his direction. He always adopted a defensive attitude when Sunny opened out. Toby only grinned and waited for what was to come.
“Meanin’?” inquired Sandy in his coldest manner.
“Meanin’? Gee! it don’t need a mule’s intellec’ to get my meanin’,” said the loafer witheringly. “Wot, in the name o’ glory, would I mean but this doggone ride we’re takin’? Say, here’s us three muttons chasin’ glory on the tail o’ two soppy lambs that ain’t got savvee enough between ’em to guess the north end of a hoss when he’s goin’ south. An’, wot’s more, we’re doin’ it like a lot o’ cluckin’ hens chasin’ a brood o’ fule chicks. I tell you it jest makes me sick. An’ ef I don’t git six weeks’ rest straight on end after this is thro’ I’ll be gettin’ plumb ‘bug,’ or––or the colic, or suthin’ ornery bum. I’ve done. Sufferin’ Creek ain’t no place fer a peace-lovin’ feller like me, whose doin’ all he knows to git thro’ life easy an’ without breakin’ up a natterally delicate constitootion. I’m done. I quit.”
Sandy’s face was a study in sneers. Not because he did not agree with the sentiments, but Sunny always irritated him. But Toby only grinned the harder, and for once, while the widower was preparing an adequate retort, contrived to forestall him.
“Seems to me, Sunny, you ain’t got a heap o’ kick comin’ to you,” he said in his slow way. “I allow you come in this racket because you notioned it. Mebbe you’ll say why you did it, else?”
This unexpected challenge from Toby had the effect of diverting the widower’s thoughts. He left the consideration of the snub he had been preparing for the loafer for some future time, and waited for the other’s reply. But Sunny was roused, and stared angrily round upon the grinning face of his questioner.
“Guess that ain’t no affair of yours, anyway,” he snorted. “I don’t stand fer questions from no remittance guy. Gee! things is gittin’ pretty low-down when it comes to that.”
“Maybe a remittance man ain’t a first-class callin’,” said Toby, his grin replaced by a hot flush. “But if it comes to that I’d say a lazy loafin’ bum ain’t a heap o’ credit noways neither. Howsum, them things don’t alter matters any. An’ I, fer one, is sick o’ your grouse––’cos that’s all it is. Say, you’re settin’ ther’ on top o’ that hoss like a badly sculptured image that needs a week’s bathin’, an’ talkin’ like the no-account fule most fellers guess you to be. Wal, show us you ain’t none o’ them things, show us you got some sort of a man inside your hide, an’ tell us straight why you’re out on this doggone trail when you’re yearnin’ fer your blankets.”
The attack was so unexpected that for once Sunny had no reply ready. And Sandy positively beamed upon the challenger. And so they rode on for a few moments. Then Toby broke the silence impatiently.