“I’ve been cookin’ for cow-camps ever since I got my knee stiffened up so’s’t I couldn’t ride—­and that’s sixteen year ago last Fourth—­and it’s the first time I ever had any darned foreman go snoopin’ around my back door to see if I scrape out the cans clean!” Mose seated himself upon a corner of the table with the stiff leg for a brace and the good one swinging free, and folded his bare arms upon his heaving chest.

“And that ain’t all, Dick,” he went on aggrievedly.  “He went and cut down the order I give him for grub.  That’s something Ches never done—­not with me, anyway.  Asked me—­asked me, what I wanted with so much choc’late.  And I wanted boiled cider for m’ mince-meat, and never got it.  And brandy, too—­only I didn’t put that down on the list; I knowed better than to write it out.  But I give Jim money—­out uh my own pocket!—­to git some with, and he never done it.  Said Ford told him p’tic’ler not to bring out nothin’ any nearer drinkable than lemon extract!  I’ve got a darned good mind,” he added somberly, “to fire the hull works into the gully.  He don’t belong on no cow ranch.  Where he’d oughta be is runnin’ the W.C.T.U.  So darned afraid of a pint uh brandy—­”

“If I was dead sure your brains wouldn’t get to leaking out your mouth,” Dick began guardedly, “I might put you wise to something.”  He took a drink of water, opened the door that he might throw out what remained in the dipper, and made sure that no one was near the bunk-house before he closed the door again.  Mose watched him interestedly.

“You know me, Dick—­I never do tell all I know,” he hinted heavily.

“Well,” Dick stood with his hand upon the door-knob and a sly grin upon his face, “I ain’t saying a word about anything.  Only—­if you might happen to want some—­eggs—­for your mince pies, you might look good under the southeast corner of the third haystack, counting from the big corral.  I believe there’s a—­nest—­there.”

“The deuce!” Mose brightened understandingly and drummed with his fingers upon his bare, dough-caked forearm.  “Do yuh know who—­er—­what hen laid ’em there?”

“I do,” said Dick with a rising inflection.  “The head he-hen uh the flock.  But if I was going to hunt eggs, I’d take down a chiny egg and leave it in the nest, Mose.”

“But I ain’t got—­” Mose caught Dick’s pale glance resting with what might be considered some significance upon the vinegar jug, and he stopped short.  “That wouldn’t work,” he commented vaguely.

“Well, I’ve got to be going.  Boss might can me if he caught me loafing around here, eating pie when I ought to be working.  Ford’s a fine fellow, don’t you think?” He grinned and went out, and immediately returned, complaining that he never could stand socks with a hole in the toe, and he guessed he’d have to hunt through his war-bag for a good pair.

Mose, as need scarcely be explained, went immediately to the stable to hunt eggs; and Dick, in the next room, smiled to himself when he heard the door slam behind him.  Dick did not change his socks just then; he went first into the kitchen and busied himself there, and he continued to smile to himself.  Later he went out and met Ford, who was riding moodily up from the river field.