“Huh; you’ll be wanting it worse than ever if we do,” smiled Dave.

“Say, Hoppy,” advised Tom Lawrence, “better drop in an’ hear the sky-pilot’s palaver before you go.  It’ll do you a whole lot of good, an’ it can’t do you no harm, anyhow.”

“You going?” asked Hopalong suspiciously.

“Can’t—­got too much work to do,” quickly responded Tom, his brother Art nodding happy confirmation.

“Huh; I reckoned so!” snorted Hopalong sarcastically, as he shook hands all around.  “You all know where to find us—­drop in an’ see us when you get down our way,” he invited.

“Sorry you can’t stay longer, Cassidy,” remarked Dave, as his friend mounted.  “But come up again soon—­an’ be shore to tell all the boys we was asking for ’em,” he called.

Considering the speed with which Hopalong started for Wallace’s, he might have been expecting a relay of “quarter” horses to keep it going, but he pulled up short at the tent.  Such inconsistency is trying to the temper of the best-mannered horse, and this particular animal was not in the least good-mannered, wherefore its rider was obliged to soothe its resentment in his own peculiar way, listening meanwhile to the loud and impassioned voice of the evangelist haranguing his small audience.

“I wonder,” said Hopalong, glancing through the door, “if them friends of mine reckon I’m any ascared to go in that tent?  Huh, I’ll just show ’em anyhow!” whereupon he dismounted, flung the reins over his horse’s head, and strode through the doorway.

The nearest seat, a bench made by placing a bottom board of the evangelist’s wagon across two up-ended boxes, was close enough to the exhorter and he dropped into it and glanced carelessly at his nearest neighbor.  The carelessness went out of his bearing as his eyes fastened themselves in a stare on the man’s neck-kerchief.  Hopalong was hardened to awful sights and at his best was not an artistic soul, but the villainous riot of fiery crimson, gaudy yellow, and pugnacious and domineering green which flaunted defiance and insolence from the stranger’s neck caused his breath to hang over one count and then come double strong at the next exhalation.  “Gee whiz!” he whispered.

The stranger slowly turned his head and looked coldly upon the impudent disturber of his reverent reflections.  “Meaning?” he questioned, with an upward slant in his voice.  The neck-kerchief seemed to grow suddenly malignant and about to spring.  “Meaning?” repeated the other with great insolence, while his eyes looked a challenge.

While Hopalong’s eyes left the scrambled color-insult and tried to banish the horrible after-image, his mind groped for the rules of etiquette governing free fist fights in gospel tents, and while he hesitated as to whether he should dent the classic profile of the color-bearer or just twist his nose as a sign of displeasure, the voice of the evangelist arose to a roar and thundered out.  Hopalong ducked instinctively.