"Score one for the Boy Scouts," he said. "If ever there were two discomfited cow-punchers, those fellows are it."
The landlord, who had entered the room a few moments before, came forward as the boys arose from the table. He was a tall, lanky man, with a look of perpetual gloom on his face. A drooping, straw-colored mustache did not help to enliven his funereal features.
"Say, strangers," he said, in a dismal voice, "you've started in bad."
"How's that?" inquired Rob, in a somewhat peppery tone.
"Why, riling up Clark Jennings and Jess Randell; they's two of the toughest boys in the country."
"Think so, I guess," snorted Tubby.
"Well, wait and see," said the landlord, with a melancholy shrug of his sloping shoulders. "Three dinners, please."
He extended a yellow palm.
"How much?" asked Rob, putting his hand in his pocket.
"Three dollars and six bits."