The knocking upstairs now reverberated through the house and a peevish voice threatened destruction to the door unless it opened speedily.
"That's th' red-head," remarked Dick. "What did I tell you?"
The proprietor hastened from behind the bar and went up the steep, narrow stairs with undignified haste. "Don't bust that door!" he cried. "Don't you bust it!"
"Aw, close yore face!" growled a voice, and Dick nodded his head wisely. "Both of 'em bad customers," he mumbled.
There was a crash and the sound of splintering wood, followed by disgusted exclamations. Dick arose and sauntered up to see the show: the host was nervously clutching a bill large enough to pay for several broken doors. The red-head was looking out of the open window while the other man rapidly searched the room.
"He dropped his belongings first," audibly commented the man at the window. "Then he dropped." He turned quickly to the proprietor: "Did he have a horse?"
"Yes; bought one first thing after he registered."
"We want one apiece," crisply demanded Hopalong, "with speed, bottom, an' sand. Got 'em? No? Then where can we get 'em to-night?"
"What'd he do?" blundered the host, rubbing the bill with tender fingers and looking for information instead of giving it.
"He dropped out th' winder," sharply replied Tex. "We never stand for that."