"How about a ride over to the South Fork this afternoon, Zen?" said Y.D.
to his daughter the following morning. "I just want to make sure them
boys is hittin' the high spots. The grass is gettin' powerful dry an'
you can never tell what may happen."

"You're on," the girl replied across the breakfast table. Her mother
looked up sharply. She wondered if the prospect of another meeting with
Transley had anything to do with Zen's alacrity.

"I had hoped you would outgrow your slang, Zen," she remonstrated
gently. "Men like Mr. Transley are likely to judge your training by your
speech."

"I should worry. Slang is to language what feathers are to a hat--they
give it distinction, class. They lift it out of the drab commonplace."

"Still, I would not care to be dressed entirely in feathers," her mother
thrust quietly.

"Good for you, Mother!" the girl exclaimed, throwing an arm about her
neck and planking a firm kiss on her forehead. "That was a solar plexus.
Now I'll try to be good and wear a feather only here and there. But Mr.
Transley has nothing to do with it."

"Of course not," said Y.D. "Still, Transley is a man with snap in him.
That's why he's boss. So many of these ornery good-for-nothin's is
always wishin' they was boss, but they ain't willin' to pay the price.
It costs somethin' to get to the head of the herd--an' stay there."