I got some of it back.
I went down and bunked with them, because they had a stove and I didn't, and it was more sociable; Perry Potter and the cook were welcome to the house, I told them, except at meal-times.

And, more than all the rest, I could keep out of range of Perry Potter's eyes.

I never could get used to that watch-Willie-grow way he had, or rid myself of the notion that he was sending dad a daily report of my behavior.
The next thing, when the weather quit sifting snow and turned on the balmy breezes and the sunshine, I was down in the corrals in my chaps and spurs, learning things about horses that I never suspected before.

When I did something unusually foolish, the boys were good enough to remember my boxing and fencing and such little accomplishments, and did not withdraw their favor; so I went on, butting into every new game that came up, and taking all bets regardless, and actually began to wise up a little and to forget a few of my grievances.
I was down in the corral one day, saddling Shylock--so named because he tried to exact a pound of flesh every time I turned my back or in other ways seemed off my guard--and when I was looping up the latigo I discovered that the alliterative Mr.Potter was roosting on the fence, watching me with those needle-pointed eyes of his.

I wondered if he was about to prepare another report for dad.
"Do yuh want to be put on the pay-roll ?" he asked, without any preamble, when he caught my glance.
"Yes, if I'm _earning_ wages.