He swung up to a sitting position with a lurch. "Here's how," he said, reaching for the pitcher.
He drank his fill and again lay down, supporting his head on a bent elbow.
"Crafty," he said severely, "why for are you monkeying with that gun?"
"I thought I had it hidden behind the table," replied Craft, shamefacedly depositing a six-shooter on the table in front of him.
He folded his arms behind the gun, but Billy noticed that the fingers of his right hand were touching the wood of the butt.
"The truth is," said Tip, "that we intend to watch you pretty closely. But you haven't any kick coming. You ain't gagged or hogtied even."
"Seeing that Sam's house is a mile out of town and a good eight hundred yards west of the Hillsville trail, gaggin' me and tying me up are hardly necessary. Sam, that water sure gave me a appetite. I feel considerable better. Suppose now you send along the chambermaid with several eggs, more or less, let 'em lay, and two-three-four slices of nice ham, and some fried potatoes, and bread and butter, and a li'l jam if you have it—if not, I'll take what you've got handy and some coffee, black, with sugar. Better have her bring a full pot of coffee. And Samuel, my own dear boyhood friend, will you send along the golden-haired chambermaid?"
"That's the way," approved Tip, smiling, as Sam Larder slumped kitchenward. "Make a joke of it. No sense in taking it to heart."
"Tip," said Bill, "I always knew you were an old scoundrel."
Tip looked hurt. "The scoundrel perhaps, and only perhaps, mind you, but I deny the age. I'm only a short fifty."