It
happened that upon this occasion the ear arrived speedily upon the head
of Dick Thomas.
"Matter, Mose?" he queried, sidestepping the cat, which gave a long leap
straight for the door, when it opened. "Cat been licking the butter
again?"
Mose grunted and slammed three pie tins into a cupboard with such force
that two of them bounced out and rolled across the floor. One came
within reach of his foot, and he kicked it into the wood-box, and swore
at it while it was on the way. "And I wisht it was Ford Campbell
himself, the snoopin', stingy, kitchen-grannying, booze-fightin',
son-of-a-sour-dough bannock!" he finished prayerfully.
"He surely hasn't tried to mix in here, and meddle with you?" Dick
asked, helping himself to a piece of pie. You know the tone; it had just
that inflection of surprised sympathy which makes you tell your troubles
without that reservation which a more neutral listener would
unconsciously impel.
I am not going to give Mose's version, because he warped the story to
make it fit his own indignation, and did not do Ford justice. This,
then, is the exact truth:
Ford chanced to be walking up along the edge of the gully which ran past
the bunk-house, and into which empty cans and other garbage were thrown.
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