“You an’ me’s ’ficials,” he said, with dignity, “an’ we has burdens that folks don’t know. My burden is these here folks that shoots pa’tridges in July; your burdens is them people who don’t pay no road-tax.”
“One o’ them people is Dan McCloud, an’ I’m goin’ after that road-tax to-night,” said Byram.
“Can’t you wait till I ketch McCloud with them birds?” asked the warden, anxiously.
“No, I can’t,” snapped Byram; “I can’t wait for no such thing!” But he spoke without enthusiasm.
“Can’t we make it a kind o’ ’ficial surprise for him, then?” suggested the warden. “Me an’ you is ’ficials; your path-masters is ’ficials. We’ll all go an’ see Dan McCloud, that’s what we’ll do. How many path-masters hev you got to back you up?”
Byram’s face grew red as fire.
“One,” he said; “we ain’t a metropolipus.”
“Well, git your path-master an’ come on, anyhow,” persisted the game-warden, rising and buttoning his faded coat.
“I—I can’t,” muttered Byram.
“Ain’t you road-master?” asked Dingman, astonished.