But the dough stayed with Wallace, a great white conspicuous splotch on his corduroys.

Jim, Frank and Jones all saw it at once.
"Why--Mr.Wal--lace--you set--in the dough!" exclaimed Frank, in a queer, strangled voice.

Then he exploded, while Jim fell over the table.
It seemed that those two Arizona rangers, matured men though they were, would die of convulsions.

I laughed with them, and so did Wallace, while he brought his one-handled bowie knife into novel use.

Buffalo Jones never cracked a smile, though he did remark about the waste of good flour.
Frank's face was a study for a psychologist when Jim actually apologized to Wallace for being so careless with his pans.