"Well, he drew a picture of J. G. sliding down the kitchen steps, before
he was out of bed. And he made a picture of Dunk, that time Banjo bucked
him off--you saw that happen, I suppose--and it was great! Dunk was
standing on his head in front of his horse, but I can't show you it,
because it blew out of the window and landed at Dunk's feet in the path,
and he picked it up and tore it into little bits. And he doesn't play
in Chip's yard any more."

"He never did," grinned Weary. "Dunk's a great hand to go around
shooting off his mouth about things he's no business to buy into,
and old Splinter let him down on his face once or twice. Chip can
sure give a man a hard fall when he wants to, and not use many words,
either. What little he does say generally counts."

The Little Doctor's memory squirmed assentingly. "It's the tone he
uses," she said, reflectively. "The way he can say 'yes,' sometimes--"

"You've bumped into that, huh? Bert Rogers lit into him with a tent
peg once, for saying yes at him. They sure was busy for a few minutes.
I just sat in the shade of a wagon wheel and laughed till I near cracked
a rib. When they got through they laughed, too, and they played ten
games uh pool together that night, and got--" Weary caught himself up
suddenly. "Pool ain't any gambling game," he hastened to explain.
"It's just knocking balls into the pockets, innocent like, yuh see."

"Mr. Davidson, there's something I'd like to tell you about. Will you
wait a few minutes more for your supper?"

"Sure," said Weary; wonderingly, and sat down upon the edge of the
watering trough.