'
Then if I do wrong, all I have to do is to write the man and tell him
the Supervisor does not approve."
"I shouldn't think you'd like that," said Bob.
"Like what?"
"Why, it sort of puts you in a hole, doesn't it? Lays all the blame on
you."
She laughed in frank amusement.
"What of it?" she challenged.
"Any letters?" Thorne asked abruptly. "Morton brought mail this morning,
didn't he?"
"Nothing wildly important--except that they're thinking of adopting a
ranger uniform."
"A uniform!" snorted California John, rearing his old head.
"Oh, yes, I've heard of that," put in Thorne instantly. "It's to be a
white pith helmet with a green silk scarf on it; red coat with gold
lace, and white, English riding breeches with leather leggins. Don't you
think old John would look sweet in that?" he asked Bob.
But the old man refused to be drawn out.
"Supervisors same; but with a gold pompon on top the helmet," he
observed. "What _is_ the dang thing, anyway, Amy?" he asked.
"Dark green whipcord, green buttons, gray hat, military cut."
"Not bad," said Thorne.
"About one fifty-mile ride and one fire would make that outfit look like
a bunch of mildewed alfalfa.
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