"Well, I gotta find him, an' I gotta find him now," declared Pickles. "Lemme go."
"What's eatin' you?" demanded Jake. "You ain't fitten to ride no place an' I 'm mortally certain you can't walk."
"Shut yore trap, Woolly-face. What's a sheep like you know, anyhow? Nothin'! Can't even dig holes less 'n yo 're prodded with lead. Lemme go."
The whiskey was having an effect on Pickles or he never would have shown malice like this. Besides, it was not true and Pickles knew it. To all questions he had but one answer and Mary was in despair when Hopalong strode into the room. Hoppy wanted to know things—"Where'd you get that horse?" he asked, sharply.
"Huh?" queried Pickles.
"Where 'd you get that horse—that horse you was ridin'?"
"That's Rose's horse—where 's Buck?"
"Rose who?"
"Huh? French Rose. Say, where's Buck?"
"French Rose, hey? Say, Mary, that's th' horse got away from me with that cow-killin' screech-owl th' other night."