The hairy one shakes his head, and peers at us out of a pair of little eyes.
“He say to me, ‘O-o-o-laf, I gif you twanty dollar month.’ He say dat an’ Aye stay for one month. Fifteen day Aye stay today.”
“This has been a long day for you, Olaf,” agrees Dirty. “Ike, do you get that jargon?”
“Sure. Alphabetical or Scenery promised him twenty a month, and today makes fifteen days he has reigned.”
“No rain,” says Olaf. “Dry as ——! Aye stay.”
He ducked back under the tent, and a second later he sticks his head out again, and beside that bunch of hair is the muzzle of a rifle.
“Aye tank Aye stay,” he announces, and ducks inside again.
“Defied by a barber-boycotter,” grunts Dirty. “Are we bluffed, Ike?”
“Not from my point of view,” says I. “You take one side and I’ll take the other.” There was four guy-ropes on each side, and it just took four kicks per each to make that tent unsupporting, and the poor old thing comes down upon Olaf. Then me and Dirty assumes reclining positions, while Olaf wastes a few cartridges, wild-like.
Then he emerges from a hole in the wreck, in time to be mounted by Dirty Shirt, who rode that shepherd to the queen’s taste. Olaf pitched considerable, but gave it up, and seemed receptive to civilized argument.