"I'm goin' to--to eat here," Skookum announced firmly. "I can't git no comfort, either. That old girl's learnin' me table etiquette! She makes me hold my fork like--like this!" To make his argument strong, Skookum grasped a fork as no human being would naturally hold one. "Say," drawled Tony, "send her over here to eat with us, and you two gwan where you belong. Me, I never did know how to hold a fork in m' life. Why, I can't even hold a hayfork proper! You tell her, Skookum, that there ain't a one of us that's got the hang of makin' peas ride our knives without rollin' off. Jelly claims it's proper to mash 'em so they lay flat, but I say they was made to ride straight up. Gwan, kid. You tell 'er they's certain ones that needs to be learnt manners, and learnt 'em quick. Tell her we got a pelican here that whistles his soup 'stead of blowin' it gentle and then gulpin' 'er down. Gwan, kid." "Yeah. Tell her I want t' know whether it's proper to say, 'Pass me those m'lasses,' or just 'Hand me them m'lasses.'" Bob Leverett winked at the others. "Tell 'er I'm liable to be invited out to a party, some time, an' I'm liable to make a bad break. Gwan, kid. You tell 'er that." "Say, kid, you tell 'er I got another type she oughta study. Tell her this one is a sure-enough dinger, and that it's got the smile of a he-angel and the heart of a demon. It's this here sow-ayve kind, you tell 'er--" "Soo-_ahve_, you darned knot-head," Gelle corrected disgustedly. "Bud can tell her," Skookum stated calmly, and straddled the long bench to sit beside Lark. "I'm goin' to eat here." "And hurt Maw's feelings?" Bud paused in the doorway and sent a glance of surprised disapproval at the boy. "She'll think you don't like her cooking any more." "Aw, shucks!" Skookum threw down his knife and straddled back across the bench. CHAPTER TEN THE FRYING PAN In that rare half-hour just before sunrise, when the cool breeze blowing across the meadows seemed saturated with sweetness and the vivifying essence of all life, as if here for a moment one might inhale the very breath which God breathed into his image made of clay and awakened it to the consciousness that it was a man, seven riders mounted at the Meadowlark corrals and went galloping down the trail, bound for the Frying Pan ranch, a long ride of forty miles through rough country. Quivering drops of dew, scattered by eager hoofs, blinked at the first mellow sun rays and vanished from sight. Birds chirped and sang and flew here and there seeking breakfast for their hungry fledglings that would themselves soon be surprising the early worm. Every man's face was eager and alert, glad for no tangible reason save that it was good to be alive and on a horse, riding out in the cool of the morning once more after the leisurely two weeks just gone.