Red Leonard, cook and waiter, treated himself to half a snigger. The second half died at the look Dog gave him.
“That makes three ham and eggs, Red,” Dog said, “with some fried potatoes and a slab of pie and plenty of coffee. If you’ve got any comparatively modern eggs, we’d like to be favored with ’em. And snap out of it. This is my nephew. Going up to our place for a while with Ducky and me, to pay a visit to Spud Dugan.”
He grinned, and Red grinned back.
“Spud Dugan is our cook,” Dog told Percival, by way of conversation. “Used to wash dishes for Red, here, but we got him to come up to the ranch and work for us. Ducky likes to cook, but he can’t, and I’m a good cook, but I wont, so we figured we’d better get in a neutral party.”
They ate, then, with that whole-souled attention to food which makes conversation impossible, Percival nibbling at first, but getting in some pretty fair work himself toward the finish, for he had not broken fast since morning. Observing this, Dog felt encouraged, very slightly, but his courage fell when he attempted to draw Percival into conversation on the long ride home, while the lad sat beside him, with Ducky perched precariously on the luggage in the rear.
“This is a fine country,” he hazarded. “Gets a bit dry at times, of course.”
“I don’t like it,” said Percival.
“You will, all right. Probably the name sort of prejudiced you—Too Dry.”
“What does a name matter?”
Dog stuck to it.