“Huh?” Nick grunted. “What was that, Gus?” “I say you ought to give that wind-wailer to Sing Lung to make soup out of.” “Yea?” Nick tapped the harmonica gently on the palm of his hand. “Maybe you figger the noise you make drinkin’ soup would turn into music then, hey?” “Chalk up one for Nick,” Teddy grinned. Except for a small cut on his head, the boy had completely recovered from his dangerous fall. “Notice you been practicin’ up quite a bit lately,” Jim Casey put in. “Norine say she likes to hear you play, Nick?” he questioned. Norine was Mrs. Moore’s daughter, Mrs. Moore being a widow who for five years had been the cook and housekeeper at the ranch house. “That’s all right,” Nick returned. “Roy, tell us what Jim had on the other night when he went callin’ over to the house. Go on, tell the assembled multitude!” “A boiled shirt,” Roy answered, with a smile. “At first I didn’t believe it was Jim, but when I went closer I heard him sing, and then I knew it was him.” “There you are!” Nick arose and spread his arms in a wide gesture. “The gentleman goes callin’ in a boiled shirt, an’ singin’! Could anything be sweeter?” “Yes! Crackers an’ milk!” Pop Burns exclaimed. “But not much sweeter. Tell you, I don’t know what this younger generation is comin’ to. Nick learns to blow tunes on a hunk o’ tin. Jim sports a boiled shirt. Gus--I don’t know what Gus does. I ain’t ketched him yet. An’ all because a silly girl knows how to make goo-goo eyes!” “She ain’t a silly girl!” Explosions of indignation burst about Pop’s ears. “She’s nice, let me tell you!” “You bet she is! Silly girl! Huh!” “She’s the purtiest girl I ever see!” “How’d you used to go callin’ on a girl, you old bronco-peeler? With a six-gun hangin’ from yore belt an’ a bowie knife between yore teeth?” “Yes!” Pop shouted, above the din. “I sure would! In my day we went courtin’ in hats, not hair tonic!” “I suppose that’s why you got so much hair now!” Gus yelled, doubling up with exaggerated laughter. “Boy, that dome of yourn shines like a Mexican dollar!” Pop clamped his hat savagely back on his head, and then grinned. “Well, I suppose boys will be boys. ’Scuse me now. I got to work. There’s some blocks behind the cook-house you children can amuse yourselves with. You can build houses. But don’t build ’em too high. They might fall on you an’ bust a finger nail or somethin’. Then Norine wouldn’t like you no more!” Before they could answer him, the veteran puncher tramped off. “Crazy old coot!” Nat Raymond said with a grin. “Always has the last word! Well, let’s get goin’, boys. There’s plenty to do. Roy, you’re the boss this week, ain’t you? Want me to ride down to Eagles and see if our inoculation stuff has come in yet?” He had reference to an antitoxin which cattle are given to prevent a disease called blackleg. “Guess you’d better, Nat,” Roy said. “And while you’re there, take a good look around. See if you can spot that puncher in a shirt that--isn’t striped.”