"Well, Dave!" smiled Big Tom, motioning for a drink that he did not want, "I'm lookin' for strays—two-laigged strays."
"What you wants is another outfit to ride herd on this one," sympathized Dave. "Lookin' for Smitty?"
"He's one of 'em. Have you seen him?"
"I have. He didn't stop here, so I don't know where he got it," said the proprietor, grinning; "but from th' way he acted, insultin' folks, I reckon he must 'a' been bit by a passel of snakes, an' took too much cure."
"That's th' worst of them sponges," regretted Big Tom, a scowl going over his face. "I don't mind a periodic if there's plenty of time in between; but Smitty's periodics are like th' days in th' week durin' a round-up—they come too close together. Have you seen any others?"
"I ain't—not since Wolf was in here one afternoon last week," answered Dave. "Let's see: that was th' day Ol' Buffalo come down from Sherman, which would make it on a Friday. But," he said sorrowfully, "I has had distressin' news about Wolf. Young Jerry Wheatley, who's freightin' now, stopped in here only last night an' says Wolf was down in Highbank drinkin' 'em out of everything but water. He says yore puncher was on th' worst bender he's seen in months, which I says means somethin', comin' from a town like Highbank."
Big Tom's fist crashed on the bar. "Cuss it!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "that's th' worst of them periodics! You can't never tell when they'll start, an' nobody knows when they'll stop!"
"You lose, both ways," nodded Dave. "Jerry says he didn't have no hoss, saddle, or guns; an' a man can travel rapid on what they'd sell for."