Bud was waving high above his head as he straddled the top rail of the fence.
“Johnny’s a poet, and we didn’t know it!” bawled Bud. “Listen here at what the witless wight’s been a-writin’!” Then, seated upon the top rail and with his hat set far back on his head, Bud Norris began to declaim inexorably the first two verses, until the indignant author came over and interfered with voice and a vicious yank at Bud’s foot, which brought that young man down forthwith.
“Aw, le’ me alone while I read the rest! Honest, it’s swell po’try, and I want the boys to hear it. Listen—get out, Johnny! ‘I’ll circle high as if passing by, then—v-o-l—then vollup, bank, an’ land—‘ Hold him off’n me, boys! This is rich stuff I’m readin’! Hey, hold your hand over his mouth, why don’t yuh, Aleck? Yo’ all want to wait till I git to where—”
“I can’t,” wailed Aleck. “He bit me!”
“Well, take ‘im down an’ set on him, then. I tell yuh, boys, this is rich—”
“You give that back here, or I’ll murder yuh!” a full-throated young voice cried hoarsely.
“Here, quit yore kickin’!” Bill admonished.
“Go on, Bud; the boys have got to hear it—it’s rich!”
“Yeh—shut up, Johnny! Po’try is wrote to be read—go on, Bud. Start ‘er over again. I never got to hear half of it on account of Johnny’s cussin’. Go on—I got him chewin’ on my hat now. Read ‘er from the start-off.”
“The best is yet to come,” Bill gloated pantingly, while he held the author’s legs much as he would hold down a yearling. “All set, Bud—let ‘er go!”
Whereupon Bud cleared his throat and began again, rolling the words out sonorously, so that Mary V heard every word distinctly:
“‘Before I die, I’ll ride the sky; I’ll part the clouds like foam. I’ll brand each star with the Rolling R, And lead the Great Bear home.’”
“Say, that’s swell!” a little fellow they called Curley interjected. “By gosh, that’s darned good po’try! I never knowed Johnny could—”
He was frowned into silence by the reader, who went on exuberantly, the lines punctuated by profane gurgles from the author.
“Now this here,” Bud paused to explain, “was c’lab’rated on by Mary V. The first line was wrote by our ‘steemed young friend an’ skyrider poet, but the balance is in Mary V’s handwritin’. And I claim she’s some poet! Quit cussin’ and listen, Johnny; yo’ all never heard this ‘un, and I’ll gamble on it:
“‘Through the clouds we’ll float in my airplane boat—‘ That, there’s by Skyrider. And here Mary V finishes it up:
“‘For Venus I am truly sorry! All the stars you sight, you witless wight, You’ll see when you and Venus light! But then—I’m sure that I should worry!’”
“I don’t believe she ever wrote that!” Johnny struggled up to declare passionately. “You give that here, Bud Norris. Worry—sorry—they don’t even rhyme!”
“Aw, ferget that stuff! Witless wight’s all right, ain’t it? I claim Mary V’s some poetry writer. Don’t you go actin’ up jealous. She ain’t got the jingle, mebby, but she shore is there with the big idee.”
“‘Drink the dipper dry’—that shore does hit me where I live!” cried little Curley. “Did you make it up outa yore own head, Johnny?”
“Naw. I made it up out of a spellin’ book!” Johnny, being outnumbered five to one, decided to treat the whole matter with lofty unconcern. “Hand it over, Bud.”
Bud did not want to hand it over. He had just discovered that he could sing it, which he proceeded to do to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne” and the full capacity of his lungs. Bill and Aleck surged up to look over his shoulder and join their efforts to his, and the half dozen horses held captive in that corral stampeded to a far corner and huddled there, shrinking at the uproar.
“And kiss ‘er snow-white ha-a-and, and kiss ‘er snow-white ha-and,” howled the quartet inharmoniously, at least two of them off key; for Tex Martin had joined the concert and was performing with a bull bellow that could be heard across a section. Then Bud began suddenly to improvise, and his voice rose valiantly that his words might carry their meaning to the ears of Johnny Jewel, who had stalked back across the corral and was striving now to catch the horse he had let go, while his one champion, little Curley, shooed the animal into a corner for him.
“It would be grand to kiss her hand, her snow-white hand, if I had the sand!” Bud chanted vain-gloriously. “How’s that, Skyrider? Ain’t that purty fair po’try?”
“It don’t fit into the tune with a cuss,” Tex criticized jealously. “Pass over that po’try of Johnny’s. Yo’ all ain’t needin’ it—not if you aims to make up yore own words.”
“C’m ‘ere! You wall-eyed weiner-wurst!” Johnny harshly addressed the horse he was after. “You’ve got about as much brains as the rest of this outfit—and that’s putting it strong! If I owned you—”
“I’d cir-cle high ‘s if pass-in’ by, then vol-lup bank an’ la-a-and,” the voice of Tex roared out in a huge wave that drowned all other sounds, the voices of Bill, Aleck, and Bud trailing raucously after.
Johnny, goaded out of his lofty contempt of them, whirled suddenly and picked up a rock. Johnny could pitch a very fair ball for an amateur, and the rock went true without any frills or curving deception. It landed in the middle of Bud Norris’s back, and Bud’s vocal efforts ended in a howl of pain.
“Serves you right, you devil!” Mary V commented unsympathetically from her perch on the ledge.
Three more rocks ended the concert abruptly and started something else. Curley had laughed hysterically until the four faced belligerently Johnny’s bombardment and started for him. “Beat it, Johnny! Beat it!” cried Curley then, and made for the fence.
“I will like hell!” snarled Johnny, and gathered more rocks.
“Oh, Johnny! Sudden’s comin’!” wailed Curley from the top rail. “Quit it, Johnny, or you’ll git fired!”
“I don’t give a damn if I do!” Johnny’s full, young voice shouted ragefully. “It’ll save me firing myself. Before I’ll work with a bunch of yellow-bellied, pin-headed fools—” He threw a clod of dirt that caught Tex on the chin and filled his mouth so that he nearly choked, and a jagged pebble that hit Aleck just over the ear a glancing blow that sent him reeling. The third was aimed at Bill, but Bill ducked in time, and the rock went on over his head and very nearly laid out Mary V’s father, he whom the boys called “Sudden” for some inexplicable reason.
Mary V’s father dodged successfully the rock, saw a couple of sheets of paper lying on the ground, and methodically picked them up before he advanced to where his men were trying to appear very busy with the horses, or with their ropes, or with anything save what had held their attention just previous to his coming.
All save Johnny, who was too mad to care a rap what old Sudden Selmer thought of him or did to him. He went straight up to the boss.
“I’ll thank you for that paper,” he said hardily. “It’s mine, and the boys have been acting the fool with it.”
“Yeh? They have?” Selmer turned from the first page and read the second without any apparent emotion. “You write that?”
Johnny flushed. “Yes, sir, I did. Do you mind letting—”
“That what I heard them yawping here in the corral?” Selmer folded the paper with care, his fingers smoothing out the wrinkles and pausing to observe the place where Mary V had torn off a corner.
“Poets and song birds on the pay roll, eh? Thought I hired