Pick up that license-tag an' let me see you perculate so lively that yore back'll look like a ten-cent piece in five seconds.

Flit!" The marshal, dazed and bewildered, stooped and fumbled for the badge.
Then he stood up and glanced at the gun in his hand and at the eager man before him.

He slid the weapon in his belt and drew his hand across his fast-closing eyes.

Cursing streaks of profanity, he staggered to the door and landed in a heap in the street from the force of Hopalong's kick.

Struggling to his feet, he ran unsteadily down the block and disappeared around a corner.
The bartender, cool and unperturbed, pushed out three glasses on his treat: "I've seen yu afore, up in Cheyenne--'member?
How's yore friend Red ?" He asked as he filled the glasses with the best the house afforded.
"Well, shore 'nuff! Glad to see yu, Jimmy! What yu doin' away off here ?" Asked Hopalong, beginning to feel at home.
"Oh, jest filterin' round like.