III BOUQUETS

The month of October sped swiftly away in one long attack on oceans of stooks amid the blue blaze of cloudless skies. The threshers were having a run of "great weather" as the blank fields and the piles of straw averred. The matter of the McClure-Pullar wager had of course leaked out and become the one thrilling feature of the annual wind-up. Aside from the two gangs there was a keenly interested and, alas, gaming public. The sympathy of the plains went to Ned Pullar; the odds to Rob McClure. Jack Butte had become an inhuman sphinx. Into Jack's elevator had come the steady stream of grain from the contending mills but to no one had he divulged the respective records. No system of tapping his books had yet succeeded. This was due to the fact that Jack Butte was an irreproachable and resourceful stakeholder. As rare evidence of his unique qualifications he had sworn the secrecy of every farmer threshed by the rivals. It was a tribute to the sporting public that with but three days to run only one man knew of the interesting situation.

The Valley Outfit was resting. Ned Pullar was oiling-up and cleaning his engine during the dinner interim. Every bit of brass about her was gleaming gold while the friction surfaces shone clean like new silver. The "Old Lady" had established a personal reputation in the Valley as a "mighty good engine," and her engineer was justly proud of her. To Ned she had become a living thing. Mounting on the footboard he grasped the throttle. During the pounding grind of the past month he had formed the habit of communing with this thing of power that he controlled with so masterful a hand. As his eyes read gauge and water-glass with satisfaction he spoke to the engine, addressing her not by word of mouth but with the voice of his reflection.

"Just a couple of days more and we'll ease up on you, old girl. You've been a game old Pal and you'll not throw me down now."

The Old Lady made violent protest at even the hint of such infidelity by throwing a hissing cloud of steam from her exhaust. Ned smiled, gripping the throttle with a fond clutch.

"Same old ready bird!" said he. "Eager to get at it, are you? Just five minutes, Old Lady, and we'll set you purring again."

With the flames roaring through her flues the thing of steel waited restively for the thing of will that held her levers in sinewy grasp.

At the separator the men resting for a few minutes upon the straw were looking up into the face of Andy Bissett, the separator man, listening to him as he worked away with wire prod and oil can.

"I tell you, lads, we are up against a stiffer proposition than any of you fellows think. Ned's out for blood. He doesn't care a whiff for that wager Butte holds. But he's got to win it."

"Hold on, Andy!" cried Lawrie, the big feeder. "You've got me up in the air. I thought the Valley Outfit was after McClure's long green."

"So they be," agreed Dad Blackford belligerently. "And Ned, 'e's a-goin' to get hit."

But Andy shook his head.

"You don't get me," said he, pausing in his work. "And I can't explain for I'm as much at sea as the rest of you. But we've got to win this little bet. If we put it over McClure it will only be by a thousand or two. Ned says he won't push the Outfit any harder, but I've taken the liberty to put on the squeeze play for a couple of days. Grant's putting on two extra stook wagons and a couple of men. Here they come now. We're going to slam through a couple of thousand above the regular. If Grant can bung this old fanning mill I don't know it."

The men leaped to their feet, for the extra wagons had rattled up. There was a fresh determination in every face. They had been working at high pressure for the long run, but they were right on their toes in the face of the challenge. Each man went to his place addressing himself to the struggle in the workmanlike fashion of the Valley Outfit. Jean Benoit, the little French bagger, plucked the tankman's sleeve as the group broke up.

"What Ned hole on hees cheek?" questioned the Frenchman excitedly.

Easy Murphy looked at him a moment deeply puzzled. Suddenly light broke.

"Begobs, 'tis the tongue in his chake yer dappy about. Why, sez you, does not the sly divil be afthur-r showin' the hand uv him? Shure Ned's not wearin' his heart on his lapel, me frind from Montmorenci."

Jean searched the Irishman's face as it went through the contortion of an excessively wise and secretive wink.

"Mon Gar!" exclaimed the confused fellow. "De boss wan woodhead! Why he de debble not squeal? Eef we know, den lak wan blankety busy bee we work de whole gang. Eef we not know, Ned he ged him on de neck."

"You're right, Jean!" was the emphatic pronouncement. "And yit Ned wull not be afthurr tellin' his saycrits till the gintle lugs uv the Valley Gang. Can't ye see whut's eggin' him on? 'Tis not the wee wager. 'Tis a man." Tapping the Frenchman wisely on the breast he whispered tragically, "The boss is thrailin' a varmit be the cognomin uv Robbie McClure and he'll be afthurr gittin' his man dead or aloive. Put that intill the poipe uv ye and smoke ut, not forgettin' till wur-rk like —— in the manetoime. Farewell!"

Jean did not understand quite all but he turned to the bagger with fierce resolution. As he knocked the filling bag with his knee he caught sight of McClure's smoke through the cloud of dust enveloping him. His dark eyes shone.

"We lick heem! We lick heem!" was his low soliloquy. Then he added joyously as he gave the bag a vicious jab, "Ha! Eet will be good!"

The thought energized him mightily. Deftly settling the bag and closing it he seized it adroitly and by united force of arms, knees and back hurled it up into the wagon, remarking ferociously:

"So we give McClure the beeg fall. We give him beeg scare too, eh? And mebbe leetle licking also."

Smiling gleefully he settled to the grind.

Easy Murphy was absorbed in a brown study as he climbed up on his water tank and started his horses over the stubble. Suddenly he came out of the maze of his cogitations and called fiercely at his horses.

"Arrah, me beauties, shake the legs uv ye or I'll be afthurr pokin' yer rumps wid me number tins."

The horses took the hint and broke into a lumbering trot. They were making a trip to the water-hole and at the moment were passing through a field of oats into which they would soon be hauling the Outfit. As he drove through the wire gate out into the road-allowance he saw a buckboard pull up at the fence some distance away. The sole occupant dropped out of the vehicle and passing through the strands of wire walked for a considerable distance into the stocks. Pausing for a moment the stranger knelt down beside a stock, then rising walked on to another, where he knelt again. His actions excited a keen curiosity in his observer.

"Begobs, me hearty!" exclaimed Easy. "Ye're not pickin' pansies in an oat-field. Nathur are ye adorin' the Almighty, for ye're almighty loike Snoopy Bill Baird, head foozler of McClure's bums. I'll hail yuh, Bill, till I find out yer tack."

He was about to yell when he checked himself, muttering:

"Howld yer jaw, ye owld fool."

The other had noticed his approach and loitered a few minutes shelling the grain, interested evidently in the yield. This matter duly settled, he climbed back through the fence and re?ntering the buckboard drove slowly along toward the tank. It was Snoopy Bill all right. As they drew abreast Easy pulled up his horses. A roguish twinkle played in his eyes as he said:

"'Tis a foine day wur-r havin', Bill. A pleasant day indade for pluckin' swate bokays."

"Great day! Great day! Murphy!" was the jocular reply,

"Bin pickin' pansies the day," continued Easy na?vely, curious to discover what he could.

Snoopy Bill looked at him sharply. But no guile could he discover in the face grinning down at him.

"No such luck, Murphy," said he casually. "I was taking a squint at the yield. Pretty durn good, eh?"

"And it's the yield ye're afthurr meddlin' with and not the swate and gowlden daisies. I saw yuh pokin' around among the stooks as I pulled through the gate."

The smile on Snoopy Bill's face ceased to deepen while the whole man became suddenly alert. Easy Murphy caught the change.

"Ye're Snoopy Bill, shure enough," blurted he. "And I'll lay ye a tin-spot ye were up to no godly devowshuns kneeling in the muck by the stooks. Ye're not prominint for religion, are ye, Snoopy?"

Snoopy Bill's tone was galling to Easy's inflammable spirit as he replied imperturbably:

"Leaving the matter of the 'swate daisies' aside, Murphy. I was praying for you, honest. I was putting in a lick for the Valley Gang asking the good Lord to have a look to Pullar's Outfit when we clean them up."

Easy's jaw set, a sign that an ultimatum was imminent.

"Ye blatherin' spalpeen!" he cried, his hands opening and shutting convulsively. "I'll be afthurr spilin' yer sassy mug if ye open it agin."

Snoopy Bill opened his "mug" with commendable lack of hesitation. An impudent drawl pointedly accentuated did not tend to reduce Easy's evident irritation.

"Talking about mugs, Murphy," said he confidentially, "it seems to me we have some curious and fine large samples hereabouts gopping wide open for free inspection."

The sardonic grin that accompanied the casual observation touched off a whole magazine of high explosive. Easy's mouth was a generously ample specimen and his posture of attention was to sit with it ajar. The amplitude of that particular area of his facial map was a source of constant regret. Hence the remark rankled.

"Ye've said it!" was his angry utterance as he threw down the lines. With a leap he was off the tank. They dropped to the road together, but Snoopy Bill having a shorter descent recovered first and rushing at his antagonist swung swiftly and struck, planting a powerful blow on the chest, hurling the other against the tank. He followed quickly for the head with his other hand but Easy's native wit acted with surprising speed and he ducked. Snoopy Bill's closed fist rapped on the hard surface of the tank, skinning the knuckles.

"Thry agin!" yelled the Irishman mockingly, with a vicious thrust into his enemy's ribs. The blow staggered his opponent. Swiftly he followed it with a jolting up-cut, yelling again, "Take wan yersilf and be hanged!"

The blow made Snoopy Bill's head bob back and he dropped to his knees. Easy stood over him furiously triumphant. Stooping he called into the other's ear:

"Git busy at yer devowshuns, me hearty. Put in a wur-rd for McClure and his divils."

With a weak smile Snoopy Bill staggered to his feet.

"You are a hard hitter, Murphy," said he dazedly.

Picking his late antagonist up bodily Easy bundled him into his buckboard and slapping the horse smartly on the hip sent him off at a trot. Placing his hands to his mouth the tankman shouted:

"If ye want anny more forgitmenots come back the morrow, the garden's full."

With this parting shot he climbed up on his tank and resumed his trip to the water-hole.