toein' out of th' gallery this mornin' when I come back for my cigs," remarked Hopalong, glancing at Billy.
Billy groaned and made for the gallery. Emerging half a minute later he blurted out his tale of woe: "Every time I blows myself an' don't drink it all in town some slab-sided maverick freezes to it. It's gone," he added, dismally.
"Too bad, Billy—but what is it?" asked Skinny.
"What is it? Wha'd yu think it was, you emaciated match? Jewelry? Cayuses? It's whisky—two simoleons' worth. Somethin's allus wrong. This here whole yearth's wrong, just like that cross-eyed sky pilot said over to"
"Will yu let up?" yelled Red, throwing a sombrero at the grumbling unfortunate. "Yu ask Buck where yore tanglefoot is."
"I'd shore look nice askin' th' boss if he'd rustled my whisky, wouldn't I? An' would yu mind throwin' somebody else's hat? I paid twenty wheels for that eight years ago, and I don't want it mussed none."
"Gee, yore easy! Why, Ah Sing, over at Albuquerque, gives them away every time yu gits yore shirt washed," gravely interposed Hopalong as he went out to cuss the cook.
"Well, what'd yu think of that?" exclaimed Billy in an injured tone.
"Oh, yu needn't be hikin' for Albuquerque—Washee-Washee'ud charge yu double for washin' yore shirt. Yu ought to fall in th' river some day—then he might talk business," called Hopalong over his shoulder as he heaved an old boot into the gallery. "Hey, yu hibernatin' son of morphine, if yu don't git them flapjacks in here pretty sudden-like I'll scatter yu all over th' landscape, sabe? Yu just wait till Johnny comes!"
"Wonder where th' kid is?" asked Lanky, rolling a cigarette.
"Off somewhere lookin' at th' sun through th' bottom of my bottle," grumbled Billy.
