of the corral, to the boundless glee of two or three of his men who
had seen it, and now there was nothing to restrain his anger.
Conniston was laughing into his face.

"I hear you," he said, lightly. "My ears are good, and your voice is
not bad by any means. Only I'd really like to know why you want me to
get up. Is it custom here for a new man to remain standing until the
foreman is seated? If I am violating any customs--"

Again Brayley took one lurching step forward. Conniston pushed his
chair back so that his feet were clear of the table leg.

"I say, Brayley"--Lonesome Pete had half risen from his chair and was
speaking softly--"Conniston here didn't know. Nobody put him wise as
how you sat in that particular chair. An'," even more softly, "he's a
frien' of Mr. Crawford."

"Who's askin' you to chip in?" challenged Brayley, his eyes flashing
for the moment from Conniston to Lonesome Pete. "An' if he's a frien'
of Crawford's, why ain't he up to the house instead of down here?
Huh?"

Lonesome Pete shrugged his shoulders and settled back into his chair.

"Slip me a sinker, Rawhide," he said, quietly, to the man next to him
as though he had lost all interest in the conversation.

"Frien' of the Ol' Man's or no frien'," blustered Brayley, his eyes
again on Conniston's, "if you're goin' to work I guess you're goin' to
take orders from me like the rest of the boys. An' the first order is,