Pete Sanderson regarded him with a peculiar expression.
“Ye’ve got a heap o’ pluck, young un,” he said. “But ye’d best take my advice, an’ leave them thar things alone. It ain’t nateral fur a man ter fly—weren’t never intended.”
“Only when the sheriff gets hot on his trail,” grinned Cranny.
“Why don’t they punch cows with aeroplanes, Mr. Clifton?” inquired Willie.
Tommy frowned fiercely, but made no reply, whereupon Willie, delighted, flopped himself down on the nearest chair.
That evening every one had something to say about the astonishing increase in Tommy’s height and the lad’s diffidence increased in ratio to the number of times such remarks were made.
Willie, too, added to his discomfort by addressing him as Doctor Clifton, necessitating upon Tommy’s part a recital of his newly-awakened ambition to some day become a member of the medical profession.
A Mexican, José Miguel Valdez, waited upon the table, while the boys had occasional glimpses of the cook, Jake Montgomery Talbot Hart, generally known as Sambo.
It seemed very pleasant to have every comfort and convenience in the big room of the ranch-house, and yet be situated right in the midst of a vast stretch of rolling prairie. The men told interesting stories of life on the range, and of former warfares between cattlemen and sheep raisers.
Willie began to liven up a bit, his half-impertinent remarks sometimes causing a ripple of mirth.