Sunny Oak, lounging on a rough bench in the shadiest part of the veranda facing Minky’s store, raised a pair of heavy eyelids, to behold a dejected figure emerge from amidst the “dumps.” The figure was bearing towards the store in a dusty cloud which his trailing feet raised at every step. His eyes opened wider, and interested thought stirred in his somnolent brain. He recognized the figure and wondered. Scipio should have been out on his claim by this time, like the rest.
The lean long figure of the lounger propped itself upon its elbow. Curiously enough, lazy as he was, the smallest matter interested him. Had he suddenly discovered a beetle moving on the veranda he would have found food for reflection in its doings. Such was his mind. A smile stole into his indolent eyes, a lazy smile which spoke of tolerant good-humor. He turned so that his voice might carry in through the window which was just behind him.
“Say, Bill,” he cried, “here’s Zip comin’ down the trail.”
As though his announcement were sufficient to rouse an equal interest in those inside the store, he returned again to his contemplation of the approaching figure.
“What’s he doin’ around camp this hour?” inquired a harsh voice from beyond the window.
“Guess I ain’t a lightnin’ calc’lator,” observed Sunny, without withdrawing his gaze.
“Nope,” came the prompt retort from the invisible speaker; “guess it ’ud keep you busy trackin’ a fun’ral.”
“Which don’t need contradiction! I’m kind o’ makin’ holiday these times. Guess you ain’t never heerd tell o’ the ‘rest cure’?”
A rough laugh broke on the drowsy atmosphere.
“Sunny’s overworked just now,” said another voice, amidst the rattle of poker chips.