Whack!  The rope landed with precision on the bowed shoulders of Cal.  “Yuh will try to fool your betters, will yuh?” Whack!  “I guess I can point out a critter that won’t stray out uh the bunch again fer a spell!” Whack!

Cal straightened, gasping astonishment, in the saddle, pulled up with a jerk, and got off, in unlovely mood.

“And I can point to a little mamma’s lamb that won’t take down his rope to his betters again, either!” he cried angrily.  “Climb down and get your ears cuffed proper, yuh darned, pink little smart Aleck; or them shiny heels’ll break your pretty neck.  Thump me with a rope, will yuh?”

Pink got down.  Immediately after, to use a slang term, they “mixed.”  Presently Cal, stretched the long length of him in the grass, with Pink sitting comfortably upon his middle, looked up at the dizzying swim of the moon, saw new and uncharted stars, and nearer, dimly revealed in the half-light, the self-satisfied, cherubic face of Pink.

He essayed to rise and continue the discussion, and discovered a quite surprising state of affairs.  He could scarcely move:  and the more he tried the more painful became Pink’s diabolical hold of him.  He blinked and puzzled over the mystery.

“Of all the bone-headed, feeble-minded sons-uh-guns it’s ever been my duty and pleasure to reconstruct,” announced Pink melodiously, “you sure take the sour-dough biscuit.  You’re a song that’s been tried on the cattle and failed t’ connect.  You’re the last wail of a coyote dying in the dim distance.  For a man that’s been lynched and cut down and waiting for another yank, you certainly—­are—­mild!  You’re the tamest thing that ever happened.  A lady could handle yuh with safety and ease.  You’re a children’s playmate.  For a deep-dyed desperado that’s wanted for manslaughter in Texas, perjury in South Dakota, and bigamy in Utah, you’re the last feeble whisper of a summer breeze. You cuff my ears proper?  Oh, my! and oh, fudge!  It is to laugh!”

Cat, battered as to features and bewildered as to mind, blinked again and grinned feebly.

“Yuh try an old gag that I wore out on humans of your ilk in Wyoming,” went on Pink, warming to the subject.  “Yuh load me with stuff that would bring the heehaw from a sheep-herder.  Yuh can’t even lie consistent to a pilgrim.  You’re a story that’s been told and forgotten, a canto that won’t rhyme, blank verse with club feet.  You’re the last, horrible example of a declining race.  You’re extinct.”

“Say”—­Pink’s fists kneaded energetically Cal’s suffering diaphragm.—­“are yuh—­all—­ba-a-d?”

“Oh, Lord!  No.  I’m dead gentle.  Lemme up.”

“D’yuh think that critter will quit the bunch ag’in to-night?”

“He ain’t liable to,” Cal assured him meekly.  “Say, who the devil are yuh anyhow?”

“I’m Percival Cadwallader Perkins.  Do yuh like that name?  Do yuh think it drips sweetness and poetry, like a card uh honey?”