“He’s scared to scrap,” howled Willie. “Get out of the way, Brandon, or I’ll hurt you, too.”
A roar of merriment followed these words.
“Oh, you can laugh,” jeered the small boy, “but I’m not going to put up with any more funny business from Bean-stalk. That book cost somebody twenty-five cents.”
“Well, boys, I’ve got to git around the range,” broke in Pete. “Now don’t forgit what I told ye—leave them thar arioplanes alone; d’ye hear? ’Tain’t nateral ter fly; an’, what’s more, ’tweren’t never intended. An’ ye’d best tote yerselves over to the ranch-house afore the young un cleans up the bunch. It wouldn’t take much, nuther, ter git these hyar longhorns goin’ ag’in.”
“Only hope you’ll punch some of ’em good an’ plenty for me,” piped Willie. “Take a squint at Mr. Clifton, Sanderson—see him before and after.”
The cow-puncher guffawed loudly, sprang into the saddle, and, with a wave of his hand, galloped away.
Willie positively refused to mount behind any of the boys.
“Never—nix!” he said. “To-night, Doc Clifton, you’ll be jolly well surprised.”
“Shall I?” sniffed Tom.
“You will!”