“Jist don’t sing, that’s all,” replied Sig. “You can say all th’ funny things yuh wants to to yoreself, but I’m right here to remark that singin’—yore kind uh singin’—ain’t in de-mand a-tall. Sabe?”
“Always misunderstood,” mumbled Ren. “Th’ human race ain’t never understood me. Mother misunderstood me; father follered suit, and now you—Siggie, my old pal—you turns on me.”
“Misunderstood!” Sig turned in his saddle and gazed reflectively at his partner. “Ren Merton, if you was ever entered fer th’ human race you shore was scratched. Yore nose ain’t right—too long. Yuh got uh bad case uh squints in both uh yore eyes, and yore mouth, which was cut too wide in th’ first place, ain’t shrunk none a-tall. Shoulders? Say, I sometimes wonder how comes it that yore collar don’t slip down and trip yuh. Also, yore right foot is where yore left ought to be.”
“Pickled prairie-dogs, that’s right!” agreed Ren. “I reckon I shore must a been muddled this mawnin’ when I puts on m’ boots.”
“And also yore hair——”
“You stops at hair!” exploded Ren. “Mebby I’ve got red hair and mebby she runs uh little to th’ rusty shade, but I’ll be danged if any feller with fat eyebrows, buffalo-horn mustache and bow legs can taunt me with th’ fact. Take uh look in th’ glass and you’ll see that you ain’t no one-to-ten shot in this race yoreself, Sig.”
Sig grunted and turned back. The horses seemed to start by mutual consent and plodded off down the hogback.
“I’ve knowed uh lot uh people,” remarked Sig, “who thought they had red hair, but——”
He pulled up his horse.
“Wasn’t that a voice, Ren?”