Hopalong nosed
around and finally dug up the hat, white as new-fallen snow.
"Here's a hat-found it in th' dough barrel," he announced, handing
it over to Frenchy, who received it in open-mouthed stupefaction.
"Yu pie-makin' pirate! Yu didn't know where my lid was, did yu! Yu
cross-eyed lump of hypocrisy!" yelled Frenchy, dusting off the flour
with one full-armed swing on the cook's face, driving it into that
unfortunate's nose and eyes and mouth. "Yu white-washed Chink, yu-rub
yore face with water an' yu've got pancakes."
"Hey! What you doin'!" yelled the cook, kicking the spot where he had
last seen Frenchy. "Don't yu know better'n that!"
"Yu live close to yoreself or I'll throw yu so high th' sun'll duck,"
replied Frenchy, a smile illuminating his face.
"Hey, cookie," remarked Hopalong confidentially, "I know who put up
this joke on yu. Yu ask Billy who hid th' hat," suggested the tease.
"Here he comes now-see how queer he looks."
"Th' mournful Piute," ejaculated the cook. "I'll shore make him wish
he'd kept on his own trail. I'll flavor his slush [coffee] with year-
old dish-rags!"
At this juncture Billy ambled up, keeping his weather eye peeled for
trouble. "Who's a dish-rag?" He queried. The cook mumbled something
about crazy hens not knowing when to quit cackling and climbed up in
his wagon. And that night Billy swore off drinking coffee.
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