Wild Bill was gazing out across the camp dumps. His expression suggested the contemplation of a problem of life and death, and a personal one at that. Sandy Joyce, too, bore traces suggestive of the weightiest moments of his life. Toby Jenks stood chewing the dirty flesh of a stubby forefinger, while the inevitable smile on Sunny Oak's face made one think of a bright spring morning under cover of a yellow fog. "How am I to see to them pore kiddies?" the latter was complaining. "I've had to do with cattle, an' mules, an' even hogs in my time, but I sure don't guess you ken set them bits o' mites in a brandin' corral, nor feed 'em oats an' hay, nor even ladle 'em swill for supper, like hogs. Fer other things, I don't guess I could bile a bean right without a lib'ry o' cook-books, so how I'm to make 'em elegant pap for their suppers 'ud beat the Noo York p'lice force. An' as fer fixin' their clothes, an' bathing 'em, why, it 'ud set me feelin' that fulish you wouldn't know me from a patient in a bug-house. It makes me real mad, folks is allus astin' me to get busy doin' things. I'm that sick, the sight of a ha'f-washened kid 'ud turn my stummick to bile, an' set me cacklin' like a hen with a brood o' ducklings she can't no ways account fer. You'se fellers are a happy lot o' Jonahs to a man as needs rest." "You're sure doing the cacklin' now," observed Bill contemptuously. "Maybe he's layin' eggs," murmured Toby vaguely. The men were standing on the veranda, gathered round the bench on which Sunny Oak was still resting his indolent body. And the subject of their discourse was Scipio's two children. The father had ridden off on his search for James, and the responsibility of his twins was weighing heavily on those left behind. "Kind o' handy ladlin' it out to folks," said Sunny, grinning lazily. "But, with all your brightness, I don't guess any o' you could mother them kiddies. No, it's jest 'send Sunny along to see to 'em.' That bein' said, you'll git right back to your poker with a righteous feelin' which makes it come good to rob each other all you know. Psha! You ain't no better'n them lousy birds as lays eggs sizes too big, an' blames 'em on to some moultin' sparrer that ain't got feathers 'nuff to make it welcome at a scratchin' bee." Sunny's flow was a little overwhelming, and perhaps there was just enough truth in his remarks to make it unadvisable for the others to measure wits with him. Anyway, he received no reply. Bill continued to gaze out at Scipio's hut in a way that suggested great absorption, while Toby had not yet lunched sufficiently off his tattered forefinger. Sandy was the only one of the three apparently alive to the true exigencies of the case, and Sunny addressed himself more exclusively to him.