"How are you going to carry him, Humble--like a papoose?" queried Joe with a great show of interest. Humble stared at him: "Huh!" he muttered, being too much astonished to say more. "I asked you how you are going to carry your fighting wolfhound," Joe said without the quiver of an eyelash. "I thought mebby you was going to sling him on your back like a papoose." "Carry him! Papoose!" ejaculated Humble in withering irony. "What do you reckon his legs are for? He ain't no statue, he ain't no ornament, he's a dog." "Well, I knowed he ain't no ornament, but I wasn't shore about the rest of it," responded Joe. "I only wanted to know how he'd get to town. There ain't no crime in asking about that, is there? I know he can't follow the gait we'll hit up for thirty miles, so I just naturally asked, _sabe?"_ "Oh, you did, did you!" cried Humble, not at all humbly. "He can't follow us, can't he?" he yelled belligerently. "He shore can't, cross my heart," asserted Silent in great earnestness. "If he runs to Ford's Station after us and gets there inside of two days I'll buy him a collar. That goes." "Huh!" snorted Humble in disgust, "he won't wear your old collar after he wins it. He's got too much pride to wear anything you'll give him." "He couldn't, you mean," jabbed Jim. "He's so plumb tender that it would strain his back to carry it. Why, he has to sit down and rest if more'n two flies get on the same spot at once." "He can't wag his tail more'n three times in an hour," added Bud, "and when he scratches hisself he has to rest for the remainder of the day." Humble turned to The Orphan in an appealing way: "Did you ever see so many d----d fools all at once?" he beseeched. The Orphan placed his finger to his chin and thought for fully half a minute before replying: "I was just figuring," he explained in apology for his abstraction. Then his face brightened: "You can tie him up in a blanket--that's the best way. Yes, sir, tie him up in a blanket and sling him at the pommel. We'll take turns carrying him." "Purple h--l!" yelled Humble. "You're another! The whole crowd are a lot of ----!" "Sing it, Humble," suggested Tad, laughing. "Sing it!" "Whistle some of it, and send the rest by mail," assisted Jack Lawson. "Seen th' dlog?" came a bland, monotonous voice from the doorway, where Lee Lung stood holding a chunk of beef in one hand, while his other hand was hidden behind his back. Over his left shoulder projected half a foot of club, which he thought concealed. "Seen th' dlog?" he repeated, smiling. "Miss Mirandy and holy hell!" shouted Humble, leaping forward at sight of the club. There was a swish! and Humble rebounded from the door, at which he stared. From the rear of the house came more monotonous words: "Nice dlog-gie. Pletty Lightling. Here come. Gette glub," and Humble galloped around the corner of the house, swearing at every jump.