“Where’s that —— towel!” he roared. “Gimme that, before I scalp yuh. Dang yuh, Hashknife, you’ve got a —— of an idea of humor. Ow-w-w-w! Please! My ——, if I ever git m’ eyes open ag’in, I’ll scalp yuh.”
Sleepy danced violently, his dripping hands held at right angles to his body.
“Whatsa idea of the ghost-dance?” queried Hashknife soberly. “The towel is there on the wash-bench, where yuh left it.”
This was palpably a falsehood, but Sleepy pawed his way to the bench, found the towel, and wiped his burning eyes.
“You hadn’t ought to use laundry soap in yore eyes,” said Hashknife reprovingly. “Whatcha cryin’ about?”
“You stole that towel! Yeah, yuh did! Oh, well!” Sleepy shrugged his shoulders. “A feller that ain’t got no more sense than to throw in with a danged—”
“Halt!” snorted Hashknife. “Say it, and I’ll wash out yore mouth, Sleepy.”
“Oh, yuh will!” Sleepy glared at Hashknife, who was in line with the kitchen door, where Marion stood, laughing.
“Ex-cuse me, Miss Taylor,” said Sleepy. “If you’d lived with Hashknife—uh—I mean, if you—” Sleepy floundered and wiped his eyes.
“You’ll excuse him, Miss Taylor,” said Hashknife seriously. “He ain’t very bright. Ever once in a while he gets a dirty look in his eyes, and has to wash ’em out, yuh see. As a friend he’s all right, but when yuh want mental companionship, I’d as soon have that burro yuh call Apollo.”