"No!" The head went around again, Sammy bending to one side to see it as long as he could. The pink, shell-like ear that flirted with him through the loosely-gathered, rebellious hair caught his attention and he leveled an accusing finger at it. "Naughty li’l ear, peekin’ at Sammy that-a-way! Oh, you stingy girl!" he chided as the back of her head confronted him. "Well, Sammy don’t like girls, no matter how pink their ears are, or turned up their noses, or wonderful their eyes. He just wants chicken, an’ all th’ fixin’s. He ’ll be very humble an’ grateful to Li’l Miss if she ’ll tell him what he can have. An’ he ’ll behave just like a Sunday-school boy. "Aw, you don’t want to get mad at only me," he continued after she refused to answer. "Got any chicken? Got any—eggs? Lucky Sammy! An’ some nice ham? Two lucky Sammies. An’ some mashed potatoes? Fried? Good. An’ will Li’l Miss please make a brand new cup of strong coffee? Then he ’ll go over an’ sit in that nice chair an’ watch an’ listen. But you ought n’t get mad at him. Are you really-an’-truly mad?" She swept down the room, into the kitchen partitioned off at the farther end and slammed the door. Sammy grinned, tugged at his upper lip and fancy-stepped to the table. He smoothed his tumbled hair, retied his neck-kerchief and dusted himself off with his red bandanna handkerchief. "Nice li’l town," he soliloquized. "_Fine_ li’l town. Dunno as I ought to go back to th’ herd—Hoppy did n’t tell me to. Reckon I ’ll stick in town an’ argue with th’ agent. If I argue with th’ agent I ’ll be busy; an’ I can’t leave while I ’m busy." He leaned back and chuckled. "Lucky me! If Hoppy had gone an’ picked Johnny to argue with th’ agent for three whole days where would _I_ be? But I gotta keep Johnny outa here, th’ son-of-a-gun. He ain’t like me—he _likes_ girls; an’ he ain’t bashful." He picked up a paper lying on a chair near him and looked it over until the kitchen door squeaked. She carried a tray covered with a snow-white napkin which looked like a topographical map with its mountains and valleys and plains. His chuckle was infectious to the extent of a smile and her eyes danced as she placed his dinner before him. "Betcha it’s fine," he grinned, shoveling sugar into the inky coffee. "Blinky oughta have a good look at _this_ layout." "Don’t be too sure," she retorted. "Mrs. Olmstead is sick and I ’m taking charge of things for her. I ’m not a good cook." "Nothin ’s th’ matter with this," he assured her between bites. "Lots better ’n most purty girls can do. If Hopalong goes up against this he ’ll offer you a hundred a month an’ throw Blinky in to wash th’ dishes. But he ’d have to ’point me guard, or you would n’t have no time to do no cookin’." "You ’d make a fine guard," she retorted. "Don’t believe it, huh? Jus’ wait till you know me better." "How do you know I ’m going to?"