“Here are some cigarettes the other man left.” Hopefully the boy extended the package—to have it snatched from his hand, scramblingly emptied, and the box flipped ceilingward.
In falling the box brought further trouble. It struck something on the wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the cowmen espied Wilson’s new, brilliantly-banded hat. In a trice Muskoka’s long arm had secured it, with the common inspiration the cluster of faces withdrew; the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.
“There—all proper millinaried dee la Bonepile,” said Muskoka. “An’ don’t mention it.”
“Now give me that white-washed fence you have around your ears.” The boy shrank farther back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for the telegraph key. In a moment the big cowman’s pistol was out.
“Back in your chair! Give me that white fence!” he commanded.
Trembling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The cowman stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it.
“There,” he announced, returning it, “much better. That’s Bonepile fashion. Put it on.”
Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of cowmen roared at the result.
“Now,” proceeded Muskoka, “that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I think it’d look better inside-out. Try it.”
Wilson again turned desperately toward the key, the cowman banged on the table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway—in shattered hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers rolled to his knees—a spectacle that set the cowboys staggering and shouting about the platform in convulsions of laughter.