the men stopped dripping, and the fleecies swooped and circled like gulls.
“I’ve filled up wi’ a entrancin’ lot o’ smellers this go, Creash,” he said. “Come off of the Pinetop where we bin cultivatin’ Californian thistle, they did.”
Creash grinned, turning his sheep over.
“Takes the all of a sewin’ needle to git through my hide. Go an’ tell Luttrell. He’s soft.”
But Ted Douglas was telling Luttrell things at that instant. And Danny paused, smelling trouble. For he knew Luttrell’s tongue, and he knew that “back-talk” was no tender to the shed boss on Mains.
“When I’m wantin’ your biography I’ll ask fur it,” said Ted, with his hands deep in his coat pockets. “I don’t care what you did in Orstralyer. A man who can’t shear his two hundred there is a fool. But the man what does more than his one hundred here—on these sheep—he’s goin’ to git fired, an’ don’t you forgit it. We ain’t over-keen on seein’ fancy wool work under the Mains brand.”
“Crewel work is the belligerent name fur it,” suggested Danny; and Scott shouted from the loft:
“Are he wantin’ a cork ter his shear p’ints, Ted?”
“Not so much as you’re wantin’ it in your mouth,” returned Ted, sharply.
