"I wish to gracious Sally and Oscar would just act like people," said
Mrs. Steve once in exasperation. "They get me so nervous stammering at
each other that I drop everything I lay my hands on, and I feel as if
I'd robbed somebody for the rest of the day."
The interview over, Oscar came out, burning with his own embarrassment,
and made a sore mess of everything he did for the next hour. A man
must have his mind about him on a ranch.
Once upon a time Steve came to Charley and me, literally prancing. We
had heard oaths and yells and sounds of a battle royal previously, and
wondered what was going on. When he neared us he moved slowly, his
hands working like machinery. "I would like to know," he began, and
stopped to glare at us and grind his teeth. "I should like to know,"
he continued, in a voice so weak with rage we could hardly hear it,
"who turned the red bull into number three corral."
Charley and I went right on cleaning out the shed. We weren't going to
tell on Oscar.
"So it's him again, heh?" shrieked Steve. "Well, now I propose to show
him something. I'll show him everything!" He was entirely beyond the
influence of reason and grammar. Charley had an ill-advised notion to
play the paternal.
"Now, I'd cool down if I was you, Steve," he admonished.
"You would, would you!" foamed Steve. "Well, who the devil cares what
you'd do, anyhow? And if you tell me to cool down just once more, I'll
drive you into the ground like a tent-pin.
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