“Thank yuh, mister!” exploded one of them, and they raced across the street to a store, all out of breath. Hashknife went to his horse, mounted and rode out of town.
The two boys lined up at the fly-specked candy counter and took plenty of time in picking out what they wanted. Angus McLaren and Len Kelsey came into the store, talking earnestly about the latest developments, and stopped near the two boys.
The old man behind the counter peered over his glasses at the boys.
“Yuh want two-bits’ worth apiece?” he asked, rather awed at their enormous purchases. “By golly, yuh must have struck a soap mine!”
“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.