"Th' lives of mice and
men gang aft all wrong," he remarked at random.
"Th' son-of-a-gun's talkin' Shakespeare," marveled Hopalong.
"Satiate any, Buck?" he asked as that worthy settled down to await his
chance.
"Two," he replied, "Shorty an' another. Plenty damn hot down here,"
he complained. A spurt of alkali dust stung his face, but the hand
that made it never made another. "Three," he called. "How many,
Hoppy?"
"One. That's four. Wonder if th' others got any?"
"Pete said Skinny got one," replied the intent Buck.
"Th' son-of-a-gun, he never said nothin' about it, an' me a fillin'
his ornery paws with smokin'." Hopalong was indignant.
"Bet yu ten we don't git `em afore dark," he announced.
"Got yu. Go yu ten more I gits another," promptly responded Buck.
"That's a shore cinch. Make her twenty."
"She is."
"Yu'll have to square it with Skinny, he shore wanted Shorty plum'
bad, "Hopalong informed the unerring marksman.
"Why didn't he say suthin' about it? Anyhow, Jimmy was my bunkie."
Hopalong's cigarette disintegrated and the board at his left
received a hole. He promptly disappeared and Buck laughed. He sat up
in the loft and angrily spat the soaked paper out from between his
lips.
"All that trouble fer nothin', th' white-eyed coyote," he muttered.
Then he crawled around to one side and fired at the center of his "C.
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