Always, at the end of these commination
services, Tom would say to Dennis, the man, "I an't a-speakin' to you,
old socks, so keep yer hair on."
That the cow-puncher (who, in his day, must have carried a "gun") did
keep on his hair became a topic of talk amongst the boys, confirming a
conviction that Dennis had been aptly named. Certainly he lacked
backbone and jawbone. Moreover, change of skies brought to him no
change of luck. Within a fortnight he was badly hurt, and obliged to
remain in bed for nearly a week.
"I got mixed up with a log," he explained to Mamie. "It bruk loose,
an' I didn't quite get outer the way. See?"
"Me, too," whispered Mamie. "Same trouble here--'zactly."
Twice while he lay upon his back she brought to the bunk-house a
chocolate layer cake and some broth. Upon the occasion of her third
visit she came empty-handed, with her too pale eyes full of tears, and
her heart full of indignation.
"I ain't got nothing," she muttered. "Tom says it's his grub."
"That's all right," replied Dennis, noting that she walked stiffly.
"But, look ye here; he ain't been wallopin' ye, has he?"
"Yes, he has.
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