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"I thought so, too, at first," replied the older man, "but his store is always neat, and he keeps up his stock. Furthermore, he never makes a mistake there's no chance for it on his one-thing-at-a-time system." But it soon became evident that Merker's reveries did not mean vacancy of mind. At such times the Placid One figured on his stock.
"I supposed their job was more in the line of putting it out," observed Bob; then, catching Merker's look of slow bewilderment, he added: "So there are several." "Yes. There's good men among 'em. There's Ross, and Charley Morton, and Tom Carroll, and, of course, old California John." Bob's amused smile died slowly.
I further find that the margin of profits on chickens is not large enough to warrant expenditures for traps, dogs and men sufficient for protection." "And how does the enterprise stand now?" asked Welton. "We are behind." "H'm. And what would you advise by way of retrenchment?" "I should advise closing out the business by killing the fowl," was Merker's opinion.
"Not Ross," protested Merker again. "He's a worker. He's just back now from the high mountains. Mr. Orde, if you've got a minute, sit down. I want to tell you about Ross." Willing to do what he could to soften Merker's natural feeling, Bob swung himself to the counter, and lit his pipe. "Ross Fletcher is a ranger because he loves it and believes in it," said Merker earnestly.
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