Carney nodded, a suspicion flashing upon him that the weak chest was twin brother to a weak brain in Billy the Jock.
"Well, it's been rainin' discard race-horses about Walla Walla."
"Much of a storm?"
"They're comin' kind of thick. There's yours, Waster, and Slimy Red has got Ding Dong; he's out of Weddin' Bells by Tambourine."
"Are you in a hurry, Bulldog?" Molly asked, fancying that Carney's well-known courtesy was perhaps the father of his apparent interest.
"I was, Molly, till I saw you," he answered graciously, a gentle smile lighting up his stern features.
"Oh, you gentleman knight of the road—always the silver-tongued Bulldog. There's a bottle inside with a gold necktie on it, waitin' for a real man to pull the cork. Come on, kid Billy."
The boy looked at Carney, and the latter said;
"It's been a full moon since I pattered with anybody about anything but fat pork and sundown. We'll accept the little lady's invitation."
"I can give Waster four quarts of oats, Mr. Carney; I've been ridin' in the way of a cure."