“Come on and I’ll show yuh our water supply.”
They went out of the tent and scrambled down the bank of a deep washout behind the tent.
“Don’t slide into it,” warned Zeb.
“Aw, slide yer grandmother!” retorted Ricky. “Any time I slide you can——”
Ricky failed to state just what he would do in case he did happen to slide, for at that certain moment the whole world seemed to fly up and hit them in the face and they both flopped head first into the spring. A few seconds later something sailed down and lit with a loud smash in the bottom of the washout.
“Gi-gi-git yer darned boots out of my mouth!” gurgled Ricky. “What do yuh think my face is—uh welcome mat?”
“What in the name of seven kinds of purgatory was that?” mumbled Zeb, wiping the water and mud out of his mouth.
“Swallered all th’ water, ate all th’ wool and had uh boot-heel for uh chaser,” announced Ricky drunkenly.
“What in thunder hit in th’ washout?” asked Zeb.
“I ought to know,” replied Ricky sarcastically. “Unha, I reckon I ought to know, bein’ as I was under about seven feet uh alkali water with yore boots in my mouth.”