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Once when I was extra flush I offers to blow him to a fam'ly circle seat at "The Bandit Queen"; but he says he thinks he'd better not go. "Plannin' to have a spin in your new car?" says I. "Hardly," says he. "Well, how do you put in your off time, anyway?" says I. And say, whatcher think?
"Six other wounded fellows lying here! Whatcher talking about?" "Only this, Punch," said Pen, with his lips close to the boy's ear. "You were carried to the little camp where those French came from that made us prisoners, and there you were put in an ambulance wagon with six more poor fellows, and the mules dragged us right away to a village where a detachment of the French army was in occupation.
Dick pointed to the spot. As the barrel was two thirds full of water it had to be rolled carefully, to avoid upsetting or spilling. It was no easy task for the two boys. "Hen, you might come and help us a minute," Dick proposed. "Whatcher take me for?" Dutcher grumbled. Whereat Tom Reade glanced grimly up from his book to remark: "Son, when you're spoken to, say 'yes, sir, and hustle!"
"Ah!" sighed the boy, as he began to revive, "that's good! I don't mind now." "But you are hurt. Where's your wound?" said the young private eagerly. "Somewhere just under the shoulder," replied the boy. "'Tain't bleeding much, is it?" "I don't know yet. I won't hurt you more than I can help." "Whatcher going to do?" "Draw off your jacket so that I can see whether the hurt's bad."
The cowboys had noticed the three lads, and, because they had been drinking bad "fire-water," suddenly decided to amuse themselves with them. "Whatcher lookin' at?" roared one of the cow-punchers, a big fellow with close-set eyes and a heavy jaw. The boys made no response. "Can't cher speak? I'll teach you some manners then!" he bellowed.
I may be able to put you straight here and there." Edna found the manager of the Loops a full-fleshed, heavy-jowled man, bushy of eyebrow and generally belligerent of aspect, with an absent-minded scowl on his face and a black cigar stuck in the midst thereof. Symes was his name, she had learned, Ernst Symes. "Whatcher turn?" he demanded, ere half her brief application had left her lips.
"Here! whatcher going to do?" cried Bob. "Lie down and sleep till breakfast-time." "Oh, are yer?" cried Bob. "We've got to go and catch our breakfasts." "What, now?" "To be sure. I'm getting hungry. Come along. I'll find a good place, and it's your turn now to get some cray-fish." "But I'm so cold and sleepy." "Well, that'll warm yer. There, don't look sulky."
"Oh, I say, whatcher talking about? You said your father was a good un, didn't you?" "I did." "Well, then, he couldn't have left your uncle to be your executioner when you hadn't done nothing." "Executor, Punch," said the lad, laughing. "Well, that's what I said, didn't I?" "No; that's a very different thing. An executor is one who executes." "Well, I know that.
'Are you goin'? cried Dick, and kicked Gable just as he would have kicked any inconvenient and mutinous youngster in the same case. 'You look out whatcher doin', muttered the old man, skipping about to avoid the second kick. I'll get someone what'll show you, he added darkly. Dick ran at him with a big stick, but Gable only retreated a few yards.
"'Well, whatcher want? he wheezed with returning breath. "'I want Spargo, the only Spargo. "'Then leave go, an' I'll glide an' see. "'No you don't, my lily-white. And I took a tighter grip on his collar. 'No bouncers in mine, understand! I'll go along." Leith dreamily surveyed the long ash of his cigar and turned to me.
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