"Thanks—much obliged—but I promised the boys I'd git back; and while I think of it, Spiser, I wish you wouldn't smoke them horses up like that. I hate to see a good team abused."
Mr. Spiser frankly stared.
Was his cook as locoed as a sheep-herder, or was he merely looking for trouble? As a precaution, Spiser took the whip from its socket and held the butt of it in one hand, while, with an indelible pencil, he filled out a check with the other.
"Thanks—much obliged." Clarence read the check carefully. "Now, while you're writin', jest look up what's comin' to you from the company, and make out one to yourself."
Again Spiser stared.
"What ails you?" he replied with a tolerant air. "Been sleepin' in the moonlight?"
The cook shook his head.
"I'm an heiress—me man."
"You're what?"
"M'uncle's dead."
"Oh, crazy with grief."
"Joy," corrected Clarence. "And, Spiser,
