me?" solicitously inquired Hopalong of
his companion.

"I was just wondering the same," replied Johnny. "Say," he confided in
a lower voice, "blamed if I don't feel sort of lost without that Colt.
Every time I lifts my right laig she goes too high--don't feel natural,
nohow."

"Same here; I'm allus feeling to see if I lost it," Hopalong responded.
"There ain't no rubbing, no weight, nor nothing."

"Wish I had something to put in its place, blamed if I don't."

"Why, now yo're talking--mebby we can buy something," grinned Hopalong,
happily. "Here's a hardware store--come on in."

The clerk looked up and laid aside his novel. "Good-morning, gentlemen;
what can I do for you? We've just got in some fine new rifles," he
suggested.

The customers exchanged looks and it was Hopalong who first found his
voice. "Nope, don't want no rifles," he replied, glancing around.
"To tell the truth, I don't know just what we do want, but we want
something, all right--got to have it. It's a funny thing, come to think
of it; I can't never pass a hardware store without going in an' buying
something. I've been told my father was the same way, so I must inherit
it. It's the same with my pardner, here, only he gets his weakness from
his whole family, and it's different from mine. He can't pass a saloon
without going in an' buying something."

"Yo're a cheerful liar, an' you know it," retorted Johnny. "You know the
reason why I goes in saloons so much--you'd never leave 'em if I didn't
drag you out. He inherits that weakness from his grandfather, twice
removed," he confided to the astonished clerk, whose expression didn't
know what to express.

"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?"

"Twe