Leaning along the walls, lounging on the table and straddling chairs with their forearms crossed on the backs were nine cowboys, ranging from old twenty to young fifty in years, and all were shouting the song and keeping time with their hands and feet.
In the center of the room was a large man dancing a fair buck-and-wing to the time so uproariously set by his companions.

Hatless, neck-kerchief loose, holsters flapping, chaps rippling out and close, spurs clinking and perspiration streaming from his tanned face, danced Bigfoot Baker as though his life depended on speed and noise.

Bottles shook and the air was fogged with smoke and dust.

Suddenly, his belt slipping and letting his chaps fall around his ankles, he tripped and sat down heavily.

Gasping for breath, he held out his hand and received a huge plug of tobacco, for Bigfoot had won a contest.
Shouts of greeting were hurled at the newcomers and many questions were fired at them regarding "th' latest from th' Hills." Waffles made a rush for Hopalong, but fell over Big-foot's feet and all three were piled up in a heap.