“Yas, yas; them cigars--I know all about them cigars. Yu gets them for twenty dollars a thousand an' hypnotizes us into payin' yu a hundred,” replied the foreman, biting off the end 'of his weed. Then he stared moodily and frowned. “I wonder why it is?” He asked. “We punchers like good stuff an' we pays good prices with good money. What do we get? Why, cabbage leaves an' leather for our smokin' an' alcohol an' extract for our drink. Now, up in Kansas City we goes to a sumptious layout, pays less an' gets bang-up stuff. If yu smelled one of them K. C. cigars yu'd shore have to ask what it was, an' as for the liquor, why, yu'd think St. Peter asked yu to have one with him. It's shore wrong somewhere.” “They have more trade in K. C.,” suggested the proprietor. “An' help, an' taxes, an' a license, an' rent, an' brass, cut glass, mahogany an' French mirrors,” countered the foreman. “They have more trade,” reiterated the man with the cigars. “Forty men spend thirty dollars apiece with yu every month.” The proprietor busied himself under the bar. “Yu'll feel better to-morrow. Anyway, what do yu care, yu won't lose yore job,” he said, emerging. Buck looked at him and frowned, holding back the words which formed in anger. What was the use, he thought, when every man judged the world in his own way. “Have yu seen any of th' boys?” He asked, smiling again. “Nary a boy. Who do yu reckon's doin' all this rustlin'?” “I'm reckonin', not shoutin',” responded the foreman. The proprietor looked out the window and grinned: “Here comes one of yourn now.” The newcomer stopped his horse in a cloud of dust, playfully kicked the animal in the ribs and entered, dusting the alkali from him with a huge sombrero. Then he straightened up and sniffed: “What's burnin'?” he asked, simulating alarm. Then he noticed the cigar between the teeth of his foreman and grinned: “Gee, but yore a brave man, Buck.” “Hullo, Hopalong,” said the foreman. “Want a smoke?” Waving his hand toward the box on the bar. Mr. Hopalong Cassidy side-stepped and began to roll a cigarette: “Shore, but I'll burn my own--I know what it is.” “What was yu doin' to my cayuse afore yu come in?” Asked Buck. “Nothin',” replied the newcomer. “That was mine what I kicked in th' corrugations.” “How is it yore ridin' the calico?” Asked the foreman. “I thought yu was dead stuck on that piebald.” “That piebald's a goat; he's beein livin' off my pants lately,” responded Hopalong. “Every time I looks th' other way he ambles over and takes a bite at me. Yu just wait 'til this rustler business is roped, an' branded, an' yu'll see me eddicate that blessed scrapheap into eatin' grass again.” He swiped Billy's shirt th' other day--took it right off th' corral wall, where Billy's left it to dry. Then, seeing Buck raise his eyebrows, he explained: “Shore, he washed it again. That makes three times since last fall.”