“All right!––six o’clock to-morrow morning at Pederstone’s shop, one block down the hill and two blocks to the left.”
Langford chuckled.
“What are you grinning at?” asked Phil.
“Oh,––just thinking what you’ll be able to do with that rusty-headed, son-of-a-gun McGregor after a month or two under Hanson.”
“Thanks! I’ve had some McGregor, and I’m not greedy. I’m not at all anxious for more.”
“What? See here, Phil,––you’ve got to beat that lobster stiff if it takes you a year. It took me all I knew to turn the trick, and I had to keep off drink for six months to do it, but there was something inside of me that just wouldn’t stay quiet till I licked the stuffing out of him. He’s a bully. He’s the craftiest, sneakiest, most underhand skunk in the Valley. He’s at the bottom of most of the trouble with cattle and feed hereabout, but he’s too damned wary to be caught.
“I’m surprised at the Mayor having anything to do with him. But, of course, the Mayor’s a cattleman himself, and, give Rob Roy McGregor his due, there isn’t a better man on stock this side of Calgary.”
“And I’ve to go blacksmithing with the set purpose of eating this fellow up?”
“No, you’re going blacksmithing for the purpose of setting yourself up, you rickle of bones! Licking McGregor can be your side line. When you beat him, you’ll know you are in pretty good shape.”
“All right,––I’m on!” agreed Phil. “But who is this Royce Pederstone? Why is he giving up his work?”