“Don't laugh, Kid; you'll spoil it all,” warned Hopalong, as he noted signs of distress on his companion's face. “Now, then; what was it we said about thirst? Come on; I see one already.”
Having entered the saloon and ordered, Hopalong beamed upon the bartender and shoved his glass back again. “One more, kind stranger; it's good stuff.”
“Yes, feels like a shore-enough gun,” remarked Johnny, combining two thoughts in one expression, which is brevity.
The bartender looked at him quickly and then stood quite still and listened, a puzzled expression on his face.
Tic—tickety-tick—tic-tic, came strange sounds from the other side of the bar. Hopalong was intently studying a chromo on the wall and Johnny gazed vacantly out of the window.
“What's that? What in the deuce is that?” quickly demanded the man with the apron, swiftly reaching for his bung-starter.
Tickety-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic, the noise went on, and Hopalong, slowly rolling his eyes, looked at the floor. A screw rebounded and struck his foot, while shot were rolling recklessly.
“Them's making the noise,” Johnny explained after critical survey.
“Hang it! I knowed we ought to 'a' got them wedges!” Hopalong exclaimed, petulantly, closing the bottom of the sheath. “Why, I won't have no gun left soon 'less I holds it in.” The complaint was plaintive.
“Must be filtering through the stopper,” Johnny remarked. “But don't it sound nice, especially when it hits that brass cuspidor!”