Then Hastings got mad and talked to us, flyin' his hands. Such a
disobligin', stubborn, sour outfit he never saw, he said. What was the
use of his bein' boss, when we just laid awake nights thinkin' up
disagreeable things to do to him? Was there ever a time that he'd
asked us to do this or that, that every man in reach didn't r'ar up and
jump down his throat? He said he'd rather be a nigger rooster on a
condemned government steamboat than bear the title of boss of such a
rag-chewin' hide-bound set of mules; kick, kick, kick--nothin' but
kick, and life wasn't worth livin'.
So then he went behind the shack and pouted. Well, we liked Hastings,
and this made us feel bad--that's the way he worked us.
The Doctor, he fried up a dish of all-sorts in his happiest manner and
took it around in a cheerful voice. No. Didn't want food. Heart was
broke. So then we all went and apologised and agreed to keep the ram.
Then Hastings recovered, and we had that cussed sheep on our hands and
feet and all over us.
[Illustration: "No. Didn't want food. Heart was broke."]
Well, it was like the devil enterin' a happy home. As for Foxey, he
just took one long look at the brute, curlin' and uncurlin' his little
tail; then "Hungh!" says he, and blinked his eyes shut, walkin' away
from there. I've seen times when I'd liked to been able to use the
English of that grunt, to thoroughly acquaint some gentleman of how
little I thought of him, but I ain't got the gift of speech.
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