"I might think it over if you'd throw in that nawyho saddle-blanket," reflected Kansas.
Joe Brindell hesitated, then, shortly:
"All right; gimme the shirt."
"And," with a look of cunning, "agree to do a warshin' for me the next time you do yours."
"Shan't I jest make over my wages to you and bind myself to saddle your horse and take it off your hands when you rides in? Between times I could darn your socks and keep your clothes mended up. Say," ominously, "I ain't no pauper jest because I don't happen to have a shirt. When I starts to take in warshin' t'wont be for a Kansan! Ketch that?"
"No offence meant," protested Kansas hastily. "'Twere jest a thought I had. Come over to the bunk-house and git the shirt whenever you want it."
"Looks like you got your head pecked that time, Joe," observed the cook, who had been an interested listener. "That blanket's worth eight dollars. I see you aims to attend the baile."
"Don't you?"
