“Didn’t strike no mine,” said one of them. “How much are them chaklits, Mr. Becker?”
“Aw, you don’t want no chaklits!” snorted the other. “They don’t give yuh hardly any for a dime. Gimme some mixed.”
“I want some mixed, too, Mr. Becker, but I don’t want all of it mixed.”
One of the boys turned and saw the sheriff and McLaren, who were smiling at them.
“Got two-bits apiece,” grinned the boy. “A tall cowpuncher gave it to us.”
“He’s that new puncher at the HJ,” explained the other.
“Gave yuh each two-bits?” smiled McLaren. “That was generous of him, eh?”
“Y’betcha. Over by the Pinnacle Saloon rack. I throwed my ball to him an’ it went under the end of the sidewalk. He got under after it, an’ he found somethin’, I think. Anyway, he was lookin’ at a paper when he got out, an’ he gave us each two-bits.”
“What kind of a piece of paper?” asked McLaren.
“I seen it,” said the other boy, watching the merchant weigh the candy. “It was kinda folded up—had printin’ on it. Say, Mr. Becker, are yuh sure them scales don’t weight under?”