“Let’s see:  a saw?” soliloquized Hopalong.  “Nope; got lots of ’em, an’ they’re all genuine Colts,” he mused thoughtfully.  “Axe?  Nails?  Augurs?  Corkscrews?  Can we use a corkscrew, Johnny?  Ah, thought I’d wake you up.  Now, what was it Cookie said for us to bring him?  Bacon?  Got any bacon?  Too bad—­oh, don’t apologize; it’s all right.  Cold chisels—­that’s the thing if you ain’t got no bacon.  Let me see a three-pound cold chisel about as big as that,”—­extending a huge and crooked forefinger,—­“an’ with a big bulge at one end.  Straight in the middle, circling off into a three-cornered wavy edge on the other side.  What?  Look here!  You can’t tell us nothing about saloons that we don’t know.  I want a three-pound cold chisel, any kind, so it’s cold.”

Johnny nudged him.  “How about them wedges?”

“Twenty-five cents a pound,” explained the clerk, groping for his bearings.

“They might do,” Hopalong muttered, forcing the article mentioned into his holster.  “Why, they’re quite hocus-pocus.  You take the brother to mine, Johnny.”

“Feels good, but I dunno,” his companion muttered.  “Little wide at the sharp end.  Hey, got any loose shot?” he suddenly asked, whereat Hopalong beamed and the clerk gasped.  It didn’t seem to matter whether they bought bacon, cold chisels, wedges, or shot; yet they looked sober.

“Yes, sir; what size?”

“Three pounds of shot, I said!” Johnny rumbled in his throat.  “Never mind what size.”

“We never care about size when we buy shot,” Hopalong smiled.  “But, Johnny, wouldn’t them little screws be better?” he asked, pointing eagerly.

“Mebby; reckon we better get ’em mixed—­half of each,” Johnny gravely replied.  “Anyhow, there ain’t much difference.”

The clerk had been behind that counter for four years, and executing and filling orders had become a habit with him; else he would have given them six pounds of cold chisels and corkscrews, mixed.  His mouth was still open when he weighed out the screws.

“Mix ’em!  Mix ’em!” roared Hopalong, and the stunned clerk complied, and charged them for the whole purchase at the rate set down for screws.

Hopalong started to pour his purchase into the holster which, being open at the bottom, gayly passed the first instalment through to the floor.  He stopped and looked appealingly at Johnny, and Johnny, in pain from holding back screams of laughter, looked at him indignantly.  Then a guileless smile crept over Hopalong’s face and he stopped the opening with a wad of wrapping paper and disposed of the shot and screws, Johnny following his laudable example.  After haggling a moment over the bill they paid it and walked out, to the apparent joy of the clerk.

“Don’t laugh, Kid; you’ll spoil it all,” warned Hopalong, as he noted signs of distress on his companion’s face.  “Now, then; what was it we said about thirst?  Come on; I see one already.”