It's me; you can't--why, Lordy me! You ought to be sent to Sulphur Springs and get your think-tank hoed out.
Any man that will offer a foreman's job to a--a--" "'A rooting, tooting, shooting, fighting son-of-a-gun, and a good one!'" assisted Mason equably.

"'The only original go-getter--' Sure.

That's all right." The flush came slowly and darkened Ford's cheeks and brow and throat.

He threw his half-smoked cigarette savagely at the hearth of the rusty box-stove, and scowled at the place where it fell.

"Well, ain't that reason enough ?" he demanded harshly, after a minute.
Mason had been studying that flush.