Hopalong's eyes sparkled. "Get a-goin', Whit. Here's where ye call th' turn. What'd I tell you?" He wheeled and rode back to the station. Whitby followed the shambling figure down the street and around the corner of a saloon, where he discovered him sunning himself on a heap of rubbish, in the rear.
"Well, my man; what is it?" asked Whitby.
The crisp, incisive tones brought him up standing; he saluted and came forward eagerly. "Youse lookin' f'r Dave?" he responded.
"What of it?"
"I seen him jump d' train down by d' pens. She wuz goin' hell-bent-f'r-election, too. Wen Dave jumps, I drops. Dave an' me don't pal."
"Why not?"
"Didn't he git me run out o' Twin? Youse was dere. Don'tcher 'member Pickles an' Dutch Onion—Pickles' old man—an' dat Come Seven guy w'at stopped d' row? Don'tcher?"
"Yes; I do. Are you the man who shied the bottle?"
"Ke-rect. I 'd done f'r him, too, but dey put d' ki-bosh on me."
"And are you sure it was Dave? Did the train stop?"