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Over to the left rifles were still popping, but at this point of the ridge the firing had temporarily died down. Bob Dillon was the center of interest. A second time his eye traveled over the group about him. "Last call for volunteers, boys. Anybody want to take a ride?" Blister found in that eye some compelling quality of leadership. "Dawg-gone you, I'll go," his high falsetto piped.
He embellished his steps with capricious figures, and when he led his partner back to the table where he had left Gray, like a sailor marooned upon a thirsty atoll, he was red faced and perspiring; his enthusiasm was boiling over. "Dawg-gone!" he cried. "Now, if we had something wet, eh?
From every door, so it seemed, people poured and converged toward them. Excited voices took up the tale, disputed, explained, offered excuses. Everybody talked except June and Bob. Blister rolled into the picture. "Dawg-gone my hide if I ever see anything to b-beat that. He was q-quick as c-chain lightnin', the boy was. Johnny on the spot. Jumped the critter s-slick as a whistle."
The door opened finally and the pride of the Briskow family, his eyes all but swelled shut, his muscular figure splendidly arrayed in futuristic silken pajamas, mumbled: "What's eatin' you, any ?" The eyes opened wider, Buddy's face broke into a slow smile. "Why, Mr. Gray!" He extended a palm, a bit dry and feverish, and drew his caller inside. "Dawg-gone! I'm glad to see you."
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