"I wonder," said Hopalong, glancing through the door, "if them friends
of mine reckon I'm any ascared to go in that tent? Huh, I'll just show
'em anyhow!" whereupon he dismounted, flung the reins over his horse's
head, and strode through the doorway.
The nearest seat, a bench made by placing a bottom board of the
evangelist's wagon across two up-ended boxes, was close enough to the
exhorter and he dropped into it and glanced carelessly at his nearest
neighbor. The carelessness went out of his bearing as his eyes fastened
themselves in a stare on the man's neck-kerchief. Hopalong was hardened
to awful sights and at his best was not an artistic soul, but the
villainous riot of fiery crimson, gaudy yellow, and pugnacious and
domineering green which flaunted defiance and insolence from the
stranger's neck caused his breath to hang over one count and then come
double strong at the next exhalation. "Gee whiz!" he whispered.
The stranger slowly turned his head and looked coldly upon the impudent
disturber of his reverent reflections. "Meaning?" he questioned, with
an upward slant in his voice. The neck-kerchief seemed to grow suddenly
malignant and about to spring. "Meaning?" repeated the other with great
insolence, while his eyes looked a challenge.
While Hopalong's eyes left the scrambled color-insult and tried to
banish the horrible after-image, his mind groped for the rules of
etiquette governing free fist fights in gospel tents, and while he
hesitated as to whether he should dent the classic profile of the
color-bearer or just twist his nose as a sign of displeasure, the voice
of the evangelist arose to a roar and thundered out.
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