The crowd's answer to this was so hearty and sincere that, for once in his life, old Cap Slater felt slightly embarrassed, and, to conceal it, he again mopped his face with the big red handkerchief.
They sat around for some time, and were on the point of leaving, when two mounted men suddenly appeared on the rim of a rise just above them.
"Sufferin' crickets!" cried Cap Slater, with a steady look. "Bart Reeder an'—an'—must be a circus nigh abouts, an', sartin sure, that feller's the ringmaster."
Mr. Buck James, looking very large and important, in his checkered suit and white vest, sat astride a small dejected-looking mustang, with his long legs dangling close to the ground. Bart Reeder, thin and small by contrast, followed on a dun-colored pony.
"Makes me think of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza," gurgled Dick. "Wondered where the two chaps had gotten to."
"I tell ye, Reeder, this here place is a frost," came from Buck James. "Outside o' one place what Smull an' Griffin acts cracked over, I ain't seen nuff yellow specks to—hello!"
His eyes had suddenly lighted on the party.
"As I live, Cap Slater!" yelled Reeder, in sepulchral tones. "Great Scott! Whar—whar—"
"Captain Slater—the old un I hear so much about?" queried James, interestedly.
"The identical feller," almost stuttered Reeder. "Whar'd ye come from, Cap?"