Skinny left off romping with Red and yawned. “I wish that cook'ud wake up an' git breakfast. He's the cussedest hombre I ever saw—he kin go to sleep standin' up an' not know it. Johnny's th' boy that worries him—th' kid comes in an' whoops things up till he's gorged himself.”
“Johnny's got th' most appallin' feel for grub of anybody I knows,” added Red. “I wonder what's keepin' him—he's usually hangin' around here bawlin' for his grub like a spoiled calf, long afore cookie's got th' fire goin'.”
“Mebby he rustled some grub out with him—I saw him tip-toein' out of th' gallery this mornin' when I come back for my cigs,” remarked Hopalong, glancing at Billy.
Billy groaned and made for the gallery. Emerging half a minute later he blurted out his tale of woe: “Every time I blows myself an' don't drink it all in town some slab-sided maverick freezes to it. It's gone,” he added, dismally.
“Too bad, Billy—but what is it?” asked Skinny.
“What is it? Wha'd yu think it was, you emaciated match? Jewelry? Cayuses? It's whisky—two simoleons' worth. Some-thin's allus wrong. This here whole yearth's wrong, just like that cross-eyed sky pilot said over to—”
“Will yu let up?” Yelled Red, throwing a sombrero at the grumbling unfortunate. “Yu ask Buck where yore tanglefoot is.
“I'd shore look nice askin' th' boss if he'd rustled my whisky, wouldn't I? An' would yu mind throwin' somebody else's hat? I paid twenty wheels for that eight years ago, and I don't want it mussed none.”
“Gee, yore easy! Why, Ah Sing, over at Albuquerque, gives them away every time yu gits yore shirt washed,” gravely interposed Hopalong as he went out to cuss the cook.
“Well, what'd yu think of that?” Exclaimed Billy in an injured tone.