“What’s the matter with putting pants on him fairly early in the fight?” inquired the next man of wisdom.
“First thing my mother always done for us was to make us a bib,” drawled one fidgety fellow, tentatively.
“He’d orter be told never to drink, ner chew, ner smoke, ner swear, ner gamble, ’fore it gits too late,” added a miner who carefully eschewed all and sundry of these virtues.
“Stub-tailed idiots!” said Barney, in huge disgust.
All eyes focussed on the fiery little cook.
“Well, then,” demanded Tuttle, “what is the first thing to do for a little kid like him?”
“The first thing?” answered Barney. “The first thing is—Do you think I’m going to tell you lop-eared galoots all I know about a baby? What I want to know is if he’s had a bite to eat?”
“What did you think we’d feed him?” asked Slivers. “Do we look like his mother?”
“Git away, you venomous scum, and let me have him!” demanded Barney.
“Hold on,” interrupted Tuttle. “The first day he goes to the feller he picks out himself, only you come last, bein’ the challenger. We’ll arrange things alphabetical. Adams, you git first shot, to find out if you’re popular with the little skeesicks.”