“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he remarked, nodding to the two Derricks as though he had not seen them earlier in the day. “Mr. Annixter, how do you do?”
“What in hell do YOU want?” demanded Annixter with a stare.
S. Behrman hiccoughed slightly and passed a fat hand over his waistcoat.
“Why, not very much, Mr. Annixter,” he replied, ignoring the belligerency in the young ranchman's voice, “but I will have to lodge a protest against you, Mr. Annixter, in the matter of keeping your line fence in repair. The sheep were all over the track last night, this side the Long Trestle, and I am afraid they have seriously disturbed our ballast along there. We--the railroad--can't fence along our right of way. The farmers have the prescriptive right of that, so we have to look to you to keep your fence in repair. I am sorry, but I shall have to protest----” Annixter returned to the hammock and stretched himself out in it to his full length, remarking tranquilly:
“It is as much to your interest as to ours that the safety of the public----”
“You heard what I said. Go to the devil!”
“That all may show obstinacy, Mr. Annixter, but----”
Suddenly Annixter jumped up again and came to the edge of the porch; his face flamed scarlet to the roots of his stiff yellow hair. He thrust out his jaw aggressively, clenching his teeth.
“You,” he vociferated, “I'll tell you what you are. You're a--a--a PIP!”
To his mind it was the last insult, the most outrageous calumny. He had no worse epithet at his command.
“----may show obstinacy,” pursued S. Behrman, bent upon finishing the phrase, “but it don't show common sense.”
“I'll mend my fence, and then, again, maybe I won't mend my fence,” shouted Annixter. “I know what you mean--that wild engine last night. Well, you've no right to run at that speed in the town limits.”
“How the town limits? The sheep were this side the Long Trestle.”
“Well, that's in the town limits of Guadalajara.” “Why, Mr. Annixter, the Long Trestle is a good two miles out of Guadalajara.”
Annixter squared himself, leaping to the chance of an argument.
“Two miles! It's not a mile and a quarter. No, it's not a mile. I'll leave it to Magnus here.”
“Oh, I know nothing about it,” declared Magnus, refusing to be involved.