Ain't yu ever goin' to grow up ?" "They've got our bronch," replied Mr.Connors in an injured tone.
"Honest, I ain't kiddin' yu," he added for the sake of peace.
"Who has ?" Came from the window, followed immediately by, "Yu've got my boots!" "I ain't--they're under th' bunk," contradicted and explained Mr.
Connors.

Then, turning to the matter in his mind he replied, "I don't know who's got them.

If I did do yu think I'd be holdin' hands with myself ?" "Nobody'd accuse yu of anything like that," came from the window, accompanied by an overdone snicker.
Mr.Connors flushed under his accumulated tan as he remembered the varied pleasures of Santa Fe, and he regarded the bronchos in anything but a pleasant state of mind.
Mr.Cassidy slid through the window and approached his friend, looking as serious as he could.
"Any tracks ?" He inquired, as he glanced quickly over the ground to see for himself.
"Not after that wind we had last night.

They might have growed there for all I can see," growled Mr.Connors.
"I reckon we better hold a pow-wow with th' foreman of this shack an' find out what he knows," suggested Mr.Cassidy.

"This looks too good to be a swap." Mr.Connors looked his disgust at the idea and then a light broke in upon him.