for this, I miss my guess. It's a little the worst we've done yet."

"Except that time we tin-canned that stray steer, last winter,"
amended Weary, chuckling over the remembrance as he fastened the
big gate behind them.

"Yes, that was another of Jack's fool schemes," put in Slim. "Go and
tin-can a four-year-old steer and let him take after the Old Man and
put him on the calf shed, first pass he made. Old Man was sure hot
about that--by golly, it didn't help his rheumatism none."

"He'll sure go straight in the air over this," reiterated Happy Jack,
with mournful conviction.

"There's old Splinter at the bunk house--drawing our pictures, I'll bet
a dollar. Hey, Chip! How you vas, already yet?" sung out Weary, whose
sunny temper no calamity could sour.

Chip glanced at them and went on cutting the leaves of a late magazine
which he had purloined from the Dry Lake barber. Cal Emmett strode up
and grabbed the limp, gray hat from his head and began using it for a
football.

"Here! Give that back!" commanded Chip, laughing. "DON'T make a dish
rag of my new John B. Stetson, Cal. It won't be fit for the dance."

"Gee! It don't lack much of being a dish rag, now, if I'm any judge.
Now! Great Scott!" He held it at arm's length and regarded it
derisively.