Exhaustive inquiries in Wayback seemed to show that Hoppy had guessed wrong. No one had seen Dave. No one had seen Schatz, either; the bank president had gone to Helena and his single clerk, single in a double sense, was an unknown number of miles distant on a journey in courtship. The station agent declared Dave had neither purchased a ticket nor taken any train from the Wayback station. Whitby became downcast but Hopalong, with each fruitless inquiry, gathered cheerfulness almost to loquacity. It was his way. "Cheer up, Whit," he encouraged: "I’d ’a’ been punchin’ cows an’ dodgin’ Injuns in th’ Happy Hunting Grounds before I could rope a yearlin’ if I ’d allus give up when I was beat." Whitby looked at him gloomily. "I ’m fair stumped," he admitted. "D’ you think, now, it would be wisdom to go back and follow his spoor?" "Spoor is good. He came to Wayback, Whit, sure as yo ’re a bloomin’ Britisher. Keep a-lookin’ at me, now: There ’s a bum over by th’ barber’s has been watchin’ us earnest ever since we hit town; he ’s stuck to us like a shadow; see if you know him. Easy, now. Don’t scare him off." Whitby won his way into Hopalong’s heart by the simplicity of his manoeuvre. Taking from his lips the cigar he was smoking, he waved it in the general direction of the station. "You said a bum near the barber-shop," he repeated. His pony suddenly leaped into the air and manifested an inexplicable and exuberant interest in life. When quieted, Whitby was facing the barber’s and carefully examining the bum. Hopalong chuckled through serious lips. Whitby had allowed the hot end of his cigar to come in contact with the pony’s hide. "No, can’t say I do; but he evidently knows me. Dashed if he does n’t want me to follow him," and Whitby looked his astonishment. Hopalong’s eyes sparkled. "Get a-goin’, Whit. Here’s where ye call th’ turn. What’d I tell you?" He wheeled and rode back to the station. Whitby followed the shambling figure down the street and around the corner of a saloon, where he discovered him sunning himself on a heap of rubbish, in the rear. "Well, my man; what is it?" asked Whitby. The crisp, incisive tones brought him up standing; he saluted and came forward eagerly. "Youse lookin’ f’r Dave?" he responded. "What of it?" "I seen him jump d’ train down by d’ pens. She wuz goin’ hell-bent-f’r-election, too. Wen Dave jumps, I drops. Dave an’ me don’t pal." "Why not?" "Didn’t he git me run out o’ Twin? Youse was dere. Don’tcher ’member Pickles an’ Dutch Onion—Pickles’ old man—an’ dat Come Seven guy w’at stopped d’ row? Don’tcher?" "Yes; I do. Are you the man who shied the bottle?" "Ke-rect. I ’d done f’r him, too, but dey put d’ ki-bosh on me." "And are you sure it was Dave? Did the train stop?" "Stop nothin’! ’T was a string o’ empties. Dave jumped it, all right. An’ I ’d hoof it all d’ way to Sante Fe to see him swing."