"Buck," exclaimed Moffat, "how did that feller McNeil, and those other
cow-punchers, get in here? You had your orders."
Mason turned his quid deliberately and spat at the open door. "You bet
I did, Jack," he responded cheerfully, yet with a trifle of
exasperation evident in his eyes. "And what's more, I reckon they was
obeyed. There ain't nobody got in yere ternight without they had a
cyard."
"Well, there has"; and Moffat forgot his natural caution in a sudden
excess of anger. "No invitations was sent them fellers. Do you mean
to say they come in through the roof?"
Mason straightened up, his face darkening, his clinched fist thrashing
the air just in front of Moffat's nose.
"I say they come in yere, right through this door! An' every mother's
son of 'em, hed a cyard. I know what I 'm a-talkin' about, you
miserable third-class idiot, an' if you give me any more of your lip I
'll paste you good an' proper. Go back thar whar you belong, an' tind
to your part of this fandango; I'm a runnin' mine."
Moffat hesitated, his brow black as a thunder cloud, but the crowd was
manifestly growing restless over the delay, calling "Time!" and "Play
ball!" and stamping their feet.
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