y grinned
the harder, and for once, while the widower was preparing an adequate
retort, contrived to forestall him.

"Seems to me, Sunny, you ain't got a heap o' kick comin' to you," he
said in his slow way. "I allow you come in this racket because you
notioned it. Mebbe you'll say why you did it, else?"

This unexpected challenge from Toby had the effect of diverting the
widower's thoughts. He left the consideration of the snub he had been
preparing for the loafer for some future time, and waited for the
other's reply. But Sunny was roused, and stared angrily round upon the
grinning face of his questioner.

"Guess that ain't no affair of yours, anyway," he snorted. "I don't
stand fer questions from no remittance guy. Gee! things is gittin'
pretty low-down when it comes to that."

"Maybe a remittance man ain't a first-class callin'," said Toby, his
grin replaced by a hot flush. "But if it comes to that I'd say a lazy
loafin' bum ain't a heap o' credit noways neither. Howsum, them things
don't alter matters any. An' I, fer one, is sick o' your grouse--'cos
that's all it is. Say, you're settin' ther' on top o' that hoss like a
badly sculptured image that needs a week's bathin', an' talkin' like
the no-account fule most fellers guess you to be. Wal, show us you
ain't none o' them things, show us you got some sort of a man inside
your hide, an' tell us straight why you're out on this doggone trail
when you're yearnin' fer your blankets."

The attack was so unexpected that for once Sunny had no reply ready.
And Sandy positively beamed upon the challenger. And so they rode on
for a few moments. Then Toby broke the silence impatiently.

"Wal?" he inquired, his face wreathed in a grin that had none of the
amiability usual to it.

Sunny turned; and it was evident all his good-nature was restored. He
had suddenly realized that to be baited by the fatuous Toby was
almost refreshing, and he spoke without any sort of animosity. It
would certainly have been different had the challenge come from the
hectoring widower.

"Why for do I do it--an' hate it? Say, that's jest one o' them things
a feller can't tell. Y'see, a feller grouses thro' life, a-worritin'
hisself 'cos things don't seem right by his way o' thinkin'. That's
natteral. He guesses he wants to do things one way, then sudden-like,
fer no reason he ken see, he gits doin' 'em another. That's natteral,
too. Y'see, ther's two things, it seems to me, makes a feller act.