One glance at the imposing Sweet-Echo and Tex turned his pony’s head toward the trail. "No, no, Son John, you ’ll not sleep there with your stockings on—though I shan’t ask you to go much farther," Tex assured him. "I ’ve seen prettier, and ridden cleverer, but none more willing than you, Son John. Ah, this begins to look more like our style. ’I-Call’—sweet gamester, I prithee call some other day; I would feed, not play. ’Ike’s’—thy name savors overly much of the Alkali, brother. Ha! ’By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked that way bums.’" He had turned to cross the Jill and saw Pop Snow basking in the failing sunlight. "’Why-Not’—well, why not? I will." "Come a long way, stranger?" asked Dirty, his gaze wandering over the tell-tale mud. He had come the wrong way for profit, but Dirty always asked, on principle: he hated to get out of practice. Tex swung his right leg over his pony’s neck and sat sideways, looking indolently at the pickled specimen who sat as indolently regarding him. "Plucked from a branch of the Mussel Shell," murmured Tex, "when Time was young"; and then drawled: "Tolerable, tolerable; been a-comin’ thirty year, just about." Dirty looked at him with frank disgust, spat carefully, and turning on his seat no more than was absolutely necessary, stuck his head in at the open door and yelled: "Hey, boys! Come on out an’ meet Mr. Comin’ Thirty. Comin’ is some bashful ’bout drinkin’ with strangers, so get acquaint." Scenting a tenderfoot half a dozen of the inmates strolled outside. When they saw the sun-tanned Tex they expressed their opinion of Dirty in concise and vitriolic language, not forgetting his parents; after which they invited Tex to "sluice his gills." One of them, a delicate-featured, smooth-faced boy, added facetiously: "Don’t be afraid; we won’t eat you." Tex released his left foot from the stirrup and slid to earth. "I was n’t afraid o’ bein’ et, exactly," was his slow response; "I was just a-wonderin’ if it would bite. I notice it ’s slipped its collar." "Go to h—l! Th’ lot o’ you!" screeched Pop, bouncing to his feet with surprising alacrity. "Wait till I buy th’ nex’ one o’ you a drink—wait! That’s all." "Lord, Dirty, we _has_ been a-waitin’. Since Fall round-up, ain’t it?" appealing to the others who gave instant, vigorous, and profane endorsement. "Pah!" exploded Pop. He faced about and executed a singular and superlatively indecent gesture with a nimbleness unexpected and disgracefully grotesque in so old a man; and then without a backward glance, he stamped off across the bridge to the I-Call. The others watched him in fascinated silence until he plumped down on his inevitable box, when the smooth-faced first speaker turned to his nearest neighbor and asked in hushed tones: "What do you think of him, Mike?"