"Peter, until payday gets around I won't have twenty cents." Bad Pete gazed at the cub keenly.
"Fact!" Tom assured him.
"Huh!" grunted Pete, rising.

"I've been wasting my time on a pauper!" Saying which, he stalked out.
Tom discreetly repressed his desire to laugh.

Hazelton glided into the tent, grinning.
"Tom, be careful not to string Bad Pete so hard, or, one of these days, you'll get him so mad that he won't be able to resist drilling you through with lead." "Let's go over to the cook tent and either beg or steal something to eat," proposed Reade.
It was two hours later when a rodman rode hurriedly into camp.
"Hey, you cubs," he called, "come and help me get Mr.Blaisdell's bed ready for him.

He's coming back sick." "Sick ?" demanded Reade, thunderstruck.

"Why, he looked healthy enough when he went out of camp a little while ago." "He's sick enough, now," retorted the rodman.
"What ails Mr.Blaisdell ?" asked Harry.
"It's mountain fever, I reckon," rejoined the rodman.