The Happy Family, under cover or at a safe distance from the hurtling pans, cans and stove wood, caressed sundry bumps and waited meekly.  Irish and Big Medicine, once more disclosing the features God had given them, returned by a circuitous route and joined their fellows.

“Look at ’em over there—­he’s emptying every grain uh rolled oats on the ground!” Happy Jack was a “mush-fiend.”  “Somebody better go over and stop ’im—­”

“You ain’t tied down,” suggested Cal Emmett rather pointedly, and Happy Jack said no more.

Chip, usually so incisively clear as to his intentions and his duties, waited irresolutely and dodged missiles along with the rest of them.  When Patsy subsided for the very good reason that there was nothing else which he could throw out, Chip took the matter up with him and told him quite plainly some of the duties of a cook, a few of his privileges and all of his limitations.  The result, however, was not quite what he expected.  Patsy would not even listen.

“Py cosh, I not stand for dose poys no more,” he declared, wagging his head with its shiny crown and the fringe of grizzled hair around the back.  “I not cook grub for dat Irish und dat Big Medicine und Happy Jack und all dose vat cooms und eats mine pies und shpoils mine pread und makes deirselves fools all der time.  If dose fellers shtay on dis camp I quits him alreatty.”  To make the bluff convincing he untied his apron, threw it spitefully upon the ground and stamped upon it clumsily, like a maddened elephant.

“Well, quit then!” Chip was fast losing his own temper, what with the heat and his hunger and a general distaste for camp troubles.  “This jangling has got to stop right here.  We’ve had about enough of it in the last month.  If you can’t cook for the outfit peaceably—­” He did not finish the sentence, or if he did the distance muffled the words, for he was leading his horse back to the vicinity of the rope corral that he might unsaddle and turn him loose.

He heard several voices muttering angrily, but his wrath was ever of the stiff-necked variety so that he would not look around to see what was the matter.  The tumult grew, however, until when he did turn he saw Patsy stalking off across the prairie with his hat on and his coat folded neatly over his arm, and Irish and Big Medicine fighting wickedly in the open space between the two tents.  He finished unsaddling and then went stalking over to quell this latest development.

“They’re trying to find out who was to blame,” Weary informed him when he was quite close.  “Bud hasn’t got much tact:  he called Irish a dough-head.  Irish didn’t think it was true humor, and he hit Bud on the nose.  He claims that Bud pitched him into that dishpan uh dough with malice aforethought.  Better let ’em argue the point to a finish, now they’re started.  It’s black eyes for the peacemaker—­you believe me.”