Then yore gain' to get kicked out of that door,
an' if yu stops runnin' while I can see yu I'll fill yu so full of
holes yu'll catch cold. Yore a sumptious marshal, yu are! Yore th'
snortingest ki-yi that ever stuck its tail atween its laigs, yu are.
Yu pop-eyed wall flower, yu wants to peep to yoreself or some
papoose'll slide yu over th' Divide so fast yu won't have time to
grease yore pants. Pick up that license-tag an' let me see you
perculate so lively that yore back'll look like a ten-cent piece in
five seconds. Flit!"
The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the
badge. Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the
eager man before him. He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand
across his fast-closing eyes. Cursing streaks of profanity, he
staggered to the door and landed in a heap in the street from the
force of Hopalong's kick. Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily
down the block and disappeared around a corner.
The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his
treat: "I've seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne-'member? How's yore friend
Red?" He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house
afforded.
"Well, shore `nuff! Glad to see yu, Jimmy! What yu doin' away off
here?" Asked Hopalong, beginning to feel at home.
"Oh, jest filterin' round like.
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