"I knowed it: started three hours late an' now he's trying to make it up
in the last mile," Hopalong muttered, dexterously spreading the tobacco
along the groove and quickly rolling the cigarette. Lighting it he
looked up again and saw that the horseman was wildly waving a sombrero.
"Huh! Wigwagging for forgiveness," laughed the man who waited. "Old
son-of-a-gun, I'd wait a week if I had some grub, an' he knows it.
Couldn't get mad at him if I tried."
Mr. Connors' antics now became frantic and he shouted something at the
top of his voice. His friend spurred his mount. "Come on, bronc; wake
up. His girl said 'yes' an' now he wants me to get him out of his
trouble." Whereupon he jogged forward. "What's that?" he shouted,
sitting up very straight. "What's that?"
Red energetically swept the sombrero behind him and pointed to the rear.
"War-whoops! W-a-r w-h-o-o-p-s! Injuns, you chump!" Mr. Connors appeared
to be mildly exasperated.
"Yes?" sarcastically rejoined Mr. Cassidy in his throat, and then
shouted in reply: "Love an' liquor don't mix very well in you. Wake up!
Come out of it!"
"That's straight--I mean it!" cried Mr. Connors, close enough now to
save the remainder of his lungs. "It's a bunch of young bucks on their
first war-trail, I reckon. 'T ain't Geronimo, all right; I wouldn't be
here now if it was.
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