"I'll put him on at least temporarily."
"There's Yellow Barbee," suggested Royce. "Somethin' of a kid, maybe
kind of wild an' harum-scarum, maybe not worth much. But he ain't a
Blenham man an' he did me a good turn."
Already Packard was on his feet, going to the door.
"Barbee!" he shouted. "Oh, Barbee!"
The bunk-house door opened, emitting its stream of light.
"Call me?" came Barbee's cool young voice, impudent now as always.
"Yes, come here a minute, will you?"
Barbee came, his wide hat far back upon his tight little curls, his
swagger pronounced, his sweet blue eyes shining softly--his lips
battered and bruised and already swelling.
"Come in and shut the door," said Packard.
Barbee entered and stepped across the room to lounge with his elbow on
the chimney-piece, looking curiously from Packard to Royce.
"I'm here to run this outfit myself, Barbee," Packard told him while
returning the youth's regard steadily. "But I need a foreman to keep
things going when I'm obliged to be away. I gave the job to Royce. He
won't have it. He suggests you."
Barbee opened his eyes a trifle wider. Also the quick flush running up
into his brown cheeks made him look more boyish than ever, giving him
almost a cherubic air. But for all that he managed to appear tolerably
unmoved, quite as though this were not the first time he had been
offered such a position.
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