"I'm afraid I shan't make one of the gang then," observed Walter, with a smile so good-humored that the words could not offend.
"Then the more fool you, that is all I can say," laughed Wheeler. "By the end of a month you won't have so much as a collar button to your name. Everything you own will be gone, especially your tools. We're a lot of pirates. I give you fair warning."
"I'm not afraid you'll want much that I've got," grinned Walter.
The upraised stick descended in a series of rhythmic blows, sending into the air a cloud of dust.
"Where's the brush?" panted the boy, when he had beaten until his arm ached.
"Say, kid, I'm not going to have you breaking your back over my job," asserted Wheeler in a friendly tone.
"I'm not breaking my back."
"But what on earth are you doing it for?" questioned the man, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"I don't know myself," returned the lad shyly. "It was just the way I was brought up, I guess."
For an interval only the sweeping of the brush broke the stillness.