Jim Rodney’s sheep off the range, even if they treated him as a felon for
the part he had played in their extermination.

Thus reasoned Simpson, while he marked with an uneasy eye that the temper
of the company had grown decidedly prankish with the exit of the girl,
who, after having caused all the trouble, had, with an irritating quality
peculiar to her sex, vanished through the kitchen door.

Some three or four of the boys now ran to Simpson’s former seat at the
table and rushed towards him with his half-eaten breakfast, as if the
errand had been one of life and death. They showered him with mock
attentions, waiting on him with an exaggerated deference, and the pale,
fat man, remembering the hideousness of some of their manifestations of a
sense of humor, breathed hard and felt a falling-off of appetite.

Costigan, the cattle-man, a strapping Irish giant, was clearing his throat
with ominous sounds that suggested the tuning-up of a bass fiddle.

"Sure, Simpson, me lad, if ye happen to have a matther av fifty dollars,
’tis mesilf that can tell ye av an illegint invistmint."

Simpson looked up warily, but Costigan’s broad countenance did not harbor
the wraith of a smile. "What kin I git for fifty chips? ’Tain’t much,"
mused the pariah, with the prompt inclination to spend that stamps the
comparative stranger to ready money.

"Ye can git a parrut, man—a grane parrut—to kape ye coompany while ye’re
aiting—"

Simpson interrupted with an oath.