“I might ask the same question of you,” replied Jack. “My name is John North and I come from Banton, Connecticut.
“Bet yeou air called Jack every time. My name is Plummer Plucky, but I’m called Plum for short, though that is all they can make short about me. I hail from New England too, and I’ll bet my dad is hoeing taters in sight of Plymouth Rock.”
“I am lost in this wilderness,” went on Jack. “I hope you can show me the way out.”
“Bet your boots on that. I live, leastways stop, not three hours’ tramp from here, though if yeou had come to-morrer yeou wouldn’t found me here. I have been working on the estancia of Don de Estuaray, the dirtiest, meanest, miserliest, yellowest old Spaniard that ever drew the breath o’ this beautiful country.”
“Evidently you love the Don,” said Jack, with a smile.
“Do I? Do you know what he pays me fer work thet’s enought to kill a man?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“No more you have. He pays me three dollars and sixty cents a month--think of it--if you can!”
“That’s a small fortune” went on Jack. He rather liked the fellow before him. “I suppose you’ve got a pile saved up in the bank out of it.”
“Think so? Consarn ye, yer ain’t got no right to think so!” And now the other really looked somewhat angry.