“Since yesterday morning.”
“Suffering scissorbills!” snorts Dirty. “You left them burros packed all night, ’cause you— Say, you fellers ought to get jobs herding sheep. You sure qualify.”
“Ah!” says Middleton, pleased-like. “Do you—er—think it could be arranged?”
“To herd sheep?”
“Exactly. It would put us closely in touch with the subject. We could make a close study of the effects of the sheep animal upon the human brain. My dear Pettingill, that would be wonderful! Could it be arranged?”
“I’d rise and howl that it could,” says Dirty. “You get the job.”
“This is too good to be true!” exclaims Pettingill.
“The same to you and many of them,” says Dirty. “Hump yourselves, mules; we’re going home.”
Them professors seemed a heap interested in our rag house. They makes a lot of notes in their little books while Dirty lays a fire in the little sheet-iron stove. Then they wants to know where the sheep are.
“You fellers want to be regular shepherds, don’t you?” asks Dirty.