“That’s a good story, Bartlett,” Elkins remarked, slowing refilling his pipe.  “Reminds me of the lame Greaser, Hippy Joe, an’ the canned oysters.  They was both bad, an’ neither of ’em knew it till they came together.  It was like this. . . .”  The malicious side glance went unseen by all but Hopalong, who stiffened with the raging suspicion of being twitted on his own deformity.  The humor of the tale failed to appeal to him, and when his full senses returned Lucas was in the midst of the story of the deadly game of tag played in a ten-acre lot of dense underbrush by two of his old-time friends.  It was a tale of gripping interest and his auditors were leaning forward in their eagerness not to miss a word.  “An’ Pierce won,” finished Lucas; “some shot up, but able to get about.  He was all right in a couple of weeks.  But he was bound to win; he could shoot all around Sam Hopkins.”

“But the best shot won’t allus win in that game,” commented Elkins.  “That’s one of the minor factors.”

“Yes, sir!  It’s luck that counts there,” endorsed Bartlett, quickly.  “Luck, nine times out of ten.”

“Best shot ought to win,” declared Skinny Thompson.  “It ain’t all luck, nohow.  Where’d I be against Hoppy, there?”

“Won’t neither!” cried Johnny, excitedly.  “The man who sees the other first wins out.  That’s wood-craft, an’ brains.”

“Aw!  What do you know about it, anyhow?” demanded Lucas.  “If he can’t shoot so good what chance has he got—­if he misses the first try, what then?”

“What chance has he got!  First chance, miss or no miss.  If he can’t see the other first, where the devil does his good shooting come in?”

“Huh!” snorted Wood Wright, belligerently.  “Any fool can see, but he can’t shoot!  An’ it’s as much luck as wood-craft, too, an’ don’t you forget it!”

“The first shot don’t win, Johnny; not in a game like that, with all the dodging an’ ducking,” remarked Red.  “You can’t put one where you want it when a feller’s slipping around in the brush.  It’s the most that counts, an’ the best shot gets in the most.  I wouldn’t want to have to stand up against Hoppy an’ a short gun, not in that game; no, sir!” and Red shook his head with decision.

The argument waxed hot.  With the exception of Hopalong, who sat silently watchful, every one spoke his opinion and repeated it without regard to the others.  It appeared that in this game, the man with the strongest lungs would eventually win out, and each man tried to show his superiority in that line.  Finally, above the uproar, Cowan’s bellow was herd, and he kept it up until some notice was taken of it.  “Shut up! Shut up!  For God’s sake, quit!  Never saw such a bunch of tinder—­let somebody drop a cold, burned-out match in this gang, an’ hell’s to pay.  Here, all of you, play cards an’ forget about cross-tag in the scrub.  You’ll be arguing about playing marbles in the dark purty soon!”