Happy Jack mopped his forehead and glanced at the sun, burning hotly down upon the prairie.  They had made a short move that day and it was still early.  But the way to Nelson’s and back had been hot and tumultuous and he was tired.  For the first time since his abject surrender to the waxed smile, Happy Jack chafed a bit under the yoke of voluntary servitude.  “Aw, can’t yuh cook something that don’t take so many eggs?” he asked in something like his old, argumentative tone.

The unpleasant glitter in the eyes of Jakie grew more pronounced; grew even snaky, in the opinion of Happy Jack.  “It is that I am no more permitted the privilege of preparing the food for fich I have the judgment, yes?” His voice purred too much to be convincing.  “It is that I am no more the chef to be obeyed by my servant?”

“Aw, gwan!  I ain’t anybody’s servant that I ever heard of!” Happy Jack felt himself bewilderedly slipping from his loyalty.  What had come over Jakie, to act like this?  He walked away to where there was some shade and sat down sullenly.  Jakie’s servant, was he?  Well!  “The darned little greasy-faced runt,” he mumbled rebelliously, and immediately felt the better for it.

Two cigarettes brought coolness and calm.  Happy Jack wanted very much to lie there and take a nap, but his conscience stirred uneasily.  The boys were making a long circle that day and would come in with the appetites—­and the tempers—­of wolves.  It occurred to Happy Jack that their appetites were much keener than they had ever been before, and he sat there a little longer while he thought about it; for Happy Jack’s mind was slow and tenacious, and he hated to leave a new idea until he had squeezed it dry of all mystery.  He watched Jakie moving in desultory fashion about the tent—­but most of the time Jakie stayed inside.

“I betche the boys ain’t gitting enough old stand-by-yuh chuck,” he decided at length.  “Floatin’ island and stuffed olives—­for them that likes stuffed olives—­and salad and all that junk tastes good—­but I betche the boys need a good feed uh beans!” Which certainly was brilliant of Happy Jack, even if it did take him a full hour to arrive at that conclusion.  He got up immediately and started for the cook-tent.

“Say, Jakie,” he began before he was inside, “ain’t there time enough to boil a pot uh beans if I make yuh a good fire?  I betche the boys would like a good feed—­”

“A-a-hh!” Happy Jack insisted afterward that it sounded like the snarling of a wolf over a bone.  “Is it that you come here to give the orders?  Is it that you insult?” Followed a torrent of molten French, as it were.  Followed also Jakie, with the eyes of a snake and the toothy grin of a wild animal and with a knife which Happy Jack had never seen before; a knife which caught the sunlight and glittered horridly.

Happy Jack backed out as if he had inadvertently stirred a nest of hornets.  Jakie almost caught him before he took to his heels.  Happy never waited to discover what the new cook was saying, or whether he was following or remaining at the tent.  He headed straight for the protection of the horse-wrangler, who watched his cavvy not far away, and his face was the color of stale putty.