"Was his clothes wet?" continued Dave.
"No-o-o," more reluctantly admitted Two-Spot.
"You got a head like a toad," contemptuously rejoined the proprietor. "Trouble with you is, yore imagination is on th' rampage. You got too much time on yore hands—suppose you 'tend to th' sand boxes? They ain't been touched in three days."
Two-Spot sighed and obeyed. "Huh!" he grunted, emptying a box into the road. "Mebby; but I saw somethin' about that hole that reminded me of some gosh-awful ca'tridges I seen lately. Cuss it—I'd bet on it!"
He chuckled, set down the box, slipped around the side of the saloon and poked his head in the hotel shed. "Don't she shine, though?" he remarked in congratulatory tones.
"She does," admitted Johnny, finishing the job.
"Say," said his visitor, "gimme an empty rifle shell."
"What for?"
"I want to keep matches in it. I'll get a cork from Dave an' have a waterproof matchbox."
"You need it," countered Johnny. "Aimin' to fall in th' crick? You need that, too."