"Oh, jus' because."
"What will you do?"
"Oh, I 'll sorta talk to him. All I want to know is his name."
"I won't tell you; you 'll fight with him."
He turned his sombrero over and looked gravely into its crown. "Well," he admitted, "he might not like me talkin' 'bout it. Of course, you can't never tell."
"But he did n't mean to hurt me. He 's only rough and boisterous; and he wasn't himself," she pleaded, looking down.
"Uh-huh," grunted Sammy, cogitating. "So 'm I. I 'm awful rough an' boisterous, I am; only I don't hurt wimmin. What's his name?"
"I'll not tell you!"
"Well, all right; but if he ever comes in here again an' gets rough an' boisterous he 'll lose a hull lot of future. I 'll naturally blow most of his head off, which is frequent fatal. What's that? Oh, he's a bad man, is he? Uh-huh; so 'm I. Well, I 'm goin' to run along now an' see th' boss. If you won't tell, you won't. I 'll be back soon," and he sauntered to the street and headed for Pete's saloon, where the agent had said Mr. Clarke was wont to pass his fretful hours.
As he turned the corner he bumped into Hopalong and Johnny, who grabbed at him, and missed. He backed off and rested on his toes, gingery and alert. "Keep yore dusty han's off'n me," he said, quietly. "I 'm goin' down to palaver with a gent what I don't like."