pie and Rawlins, enjoying the vocal part of it greatly, in which he very soon excelled.
That was a small job, and soon done. Peck was proud of the dip that had splashed on his hands and face as a boy is proud of a bloody nose. He asked Tippie how he had done, glowing in satisfaction of his own performance, bidding for a boost.
"You'll be worth as much as a dog around a band of sheep in a year or two," Tippie replied.
Peck laughed, unconscious of how nearly that was a compliment. Rawlins saw that Tippie wouldn't have said it if he had meant it, for no sheepman will admit a beginner ever can become as valuable as a dog.
"Well, if that's all, I think I'll go in and scrub up and shave," Peck proposed.
"That ain't half," Tippie corrected him severely. "This is your day for makin' good. All of these mail-order fellers 're handed over to me. I've got to see the first one of 'em yet to make good."
"All of which?" Peck inquired, head to one side like a chicken looking at the sun.
"Mail-order fellers, I said; these beaux that Edith orders by mail. It's a rule of this ranch no man's fit to marry her if he can't make good. The same test I've always put the rest of 'em to I'm goin' to put you to. If you fall down on it you pack up and light out of here without another word. If you don't want to go up agin this test, you're out. You pack up your duds and go."
As Tippie delivered this in his close-mouthed, nasal growl, apparently so resentful and severe, Peck's crawfish eyes seemed to push out a little farther. The
