"Terry looks at th' mayreener a spell. 'Casey,' he says, 'you're right. He done it, th' shrimp. It was him invented th' tamarin's, and him st— borrered th' caraboo, and him went to sleep on the Escolta. And us aimin' to ack decent, an' gettin' th' Old Man to save our money for us. Th' cock-eyed old cod-fish!' says Terry, eyein' th' slumberin' mayreener. 'I'd like to bat his head off. Swelp me if ever I drink another—'
"'Mytes,' th' mayreener begins, but Terry claps a hand over his mouth. 'What'll we do to him, Casey?' he says.
"'Le's think,' I says.
"Th' caraboo was still loafin' along with his pick and shovel over his shoulder, and we sets and looks at him, and th' mayreener, and th' paddies, thinkin'. It was gettin' pretty near dark, and 'way ahead of us was some mountains th' caraboo looked to be makin' for. Then th' plan come to us.
"'Give us th' rope, Casey,' Terry says. 'He might roll off 'n muddy his cloes.' They was a coil of pack-rope on th' cart, and we takes and rolls th' mayreener all up in it and fastens him to th' cart, all safe and sound. He never yips till we're settin' th' last knot. 'Three friends,' he says. 'Mytes, I never thought to 'ave—'
"'Friends!' says Terry. 'Friends! Ain't he got a nerve!'
"We drops off behind and leaves him and his buffalao to jog along. It was gettin' dark, but we set down and watched them out of sight. They was passin' out of our lives slow but sure, joggin' along, him and his buffalao.
"'There may be ladrones in them mountains,' I says.
"'Ladrones,' says Terry, 'wouldn't bother him. He's too superfalous f'r ladrones.'
"It got darker and darker, and pretty soon old Mr. Caraboo grunts up over a little rise and they was gone. 'Well,' says Terry, 'if he ever does get back, he'll have somethin' real to remember this time. Come along, Casey.'