CHAPTER 2Windy was right. This Bowers is a melancholy-looking jasper with sorrel hair, and he talks like he had a mouthful of mush. “Yeah, I’m losin’ cows all the danged time,” he wails, humping over his saddle-horn. “Wisht I knowed what to do.” “I’ll tell yuh what yuh ought to do,” suggests Hashknife. “What?” “Get your adenoids cut out.” “My addy-noids?” “Uh-huh. Your talk sounds like a bogged-down calf. You know what I mean—kinda glub-glub.” “Well,” says he foolish-like: “Well, I’ll be—!” Then he looks over at Windy, who looks as serious as a funeral. “You sabe what he means?” “Sure. He’s right, too.” “Well. Mebbe that’s right. Huh!” Then Mr. Bowers swings his horse around and goes poco poco off down the road, deep in thought. “What’s adenoids, Hashknife?” asks Windy. “I kno