"No more this mo'nin', Captain," answered Jack equably.
"Nor grandstandin' with any more ladino steers?"
"I exhibit only once a day."
"By dog, you give a sure-enough good show," exploded Ellison. "You got yore nerve, boy. Wait around till the prettiest girl in Texas can see you pull off the big play—run the risk of havin' her trampled to death, just so's you can grin an' say, 'Pleased to meet you, ma'am.' When I call you durn fool, I realize it's too weak a name."
"Hop to it, Captain. Use up some real language on me. Spill out a lot of those syllogisms you got bottled up inside you. I got it comin'," admitted Roberts genially as he rolled a cigarette.
The Captain had been a mule-skinner once, and for five glorious minutes he did himself proud while the graceless young cowpuncher beamed on him.
"You sure go some, Cap," applauded the young fellow. "I'd admire to have your flow of talk."
Ellison subsided into anticlimax. "Well, don't you ever drive yore wild hill-critters through town again. Hear me, young fellow?"
"You'll have to speak to Wadley about that. I'm not his trail boss any longer."
"Since when?"