All were beaming with good nature, for they were as so many school boys playing truant.

Prosaic cow-punching was relegated to the rear and they looked eagerly forward to their several missions.

Frenchy told of the barb-wire fence war and of the new regulations of "Smith of Buffalo" regarding cow-punchers' guns, and from the caustic remarks explosively given it was plain to be seen what a wire fence could expect, should one be met with, and there were many imaginary Smiths put hors de combat.
Kid Morris, after vainly trying to slip a blue-bottle fly inside of Hopalong's shirt, gave it up and slammed his hand on Hopalong's back instead, crying: "Well, I'll be doggoned if here ain't Hopalong! How's th' missus an' th' deacon an' all th' folks to hum?
I hears yu an' Frenchy's reg'lar poker fiends!" "Oh, we plays onct in a while, but we don't want none of yore dust.
Yu'll shore need it all afore th' Hills get through with yu," laughingly replied Hopalong.
"Oh, yore shore kind! But I was a sort of reckonin' that we needs some more.

Perfesser P.D.Q.Waffles is our poker man an' he shore can clean out anything I ever saw.

Mebbe yu fellers feel reckless-like an' would like to make a pool," he cried, addressing the outfit of the Bar-20, "an' back yore boss of th' full house agin ourn ?" Red turned slowly around and took a full minute in which to size the Kid up.