* * * * *
"What have you been drinkin', Racey?" demanded Mr. Saltoun, winking at his son-in-law and foreman, Tom Loudon.
The latter did not return the wink. He kept a sober gaze fastened on
Racey Dawson.
Racey was staring at Mr. Saltoun. His eyes began to narrow. "Meanin'?" he drawled.
"Now don't go crawlin' round huntin' offense where none's meant," advised Mr. Saltoun. "But you know how it is yoreself, Racey. Any gent who gets so full he can't pick out his own hoss, and goes weaving off on somebody else's is liable to make mistakes other ways. You gotta admit it's possible."
The slight tinge of red underlying Racey's heavy coat of tan acknowledged the corn. "It's possible," he admitted.
Mr. Saltoun saw his advantage and seized it. "S'pose now this is another mistake?"
"Tell you what I'll do," said Racey. "You said you had jobs for a couple of handsome young fellers like us. Aw right. We go to work. We ride for you six months for nothing."
"Huh?" Mr. Saltoun and Tom Loudon stared their astonishment.
"Oh, the cat's got more of a tail than that," said Racey. "You don't pay us a nickel for those six months provided what I said will happen, don't happen. If it does happen like I say, you pay each of us two hundred large round simoleons per each and every month."