“’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!”