“Are you goin’ to take that back?” he asked.
Danny’s freckled nose reefed in a grin.
“Deciduously, yer great lumberin’ hipperotermus. Let it go fur Jimmie’s boots, then. Double ’eels, fur perfrontin’ a leak.”
Jimmie flung a scone to secure attention, and his boy-face was unflushed.
“Don’t spile him to-day, Ted,” he said. “He's goin’ down ter see his girl, an’ it tuk him a half-hour oilin’ his bang. Jes’ take him ter pieces pretty, an’ put him tergether agin wi’ that face o’ his turned inside ef yer can manage it.”
Lou blinked through the haze of breath and steam.
“Mains has got a nut in you, Jimmie who-ever-you-are,” he murmured.
Then he went across the yard to his bunk and slept until the noise of a boxing-skirmish, conducted under strictly scientific rules, drew him out to the gay sunshine of the sloping paddock that ended in a rush-bound creek.
Danny was referee and umpire and general promoter, and half the township were there by special invitation. Scannell of Mains allowed all things—in reason; and once, when the vicar objected, he said:
“What would you have the men do? Ride through to the next township and demand drinks as travellers? Too many do that sort of thing already.”
