"
"I had a whole lot to do with pickin' her out, didn't I?"
"Well, you can't make me believe that she did the pickin', for you was
tellin' me she had good eyes."
"I reckon it was the Doc that did the pickin',"' suggested Pete.
"Well, I suppose the next thing you'll be givin' the preacher a chanct."
"Nope. Next thing I'll be givin' Miss Gray a chanct to tell me I'm a
doggone idiot--only she don't talk like that."
"Then it'll be because she don't know you like I do. But you're lucky--
No tellin'--" Andy climbed down from the bars.
"No tellin' what?" queried Pete.
"No tellin' you how much I sure want you to win, pardner--because you
know it."
Pete leapt from the top rail square on to Andy, who, taken off his guard,
toppled and fell. They rolled over and over, not even trying to miss the
puddle of water beside the drinking-trough. Andy managed to get his free
hand in the mud and thought of feeding some of it to Pete, but Pete was
too quick for him, squirming loose and making for the bunkhouse at top
speed.
Pete entrenched himself in the far corner of the room where Bill Haskins
was reading a novel,--exceedingly popular, if the debilitated condition
of the pages and covers were any criterion,--when Andy entered, holding
one hand behind him in a suspicious manner.
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