Arch shrugged his shoulders and Sam Gardner sighed expressively, and then prodded the slumped individual into semblance of intelligence and erectness. This done he kicked the shins of the prostrate cook until that unfortunate raised an owlish, agonized, and protesting countenance to stare at his foreman. "Nelson wants to know if yo're hungry," prompted Sam, grinning. "Take it--away!" mumbled the indignant cook. "I _won't_ eat! Who's goin' to make me?" he demanded with a show of pugnacity. "I won't!" Joe Reilly, painfully erect in his chair, blinked and focussed his eyes on the speaker. "Then don't!" he said. "Shut yore face--others kin eat!" He turned his whole body, stiff as a ramrod, and looked at each of the others in turn. "Don't pay no 'tention to him. I kin--eat th'--d--d harness," he asserted, thereby proving that his stomach preserved family traditions. Johnny laughed at them. "Yo're a h--l of an outfit," he said without conviction. "What do you say about goin' up to th' hotel an' gettin' somethin' to eat? It's past grubtime, but let's see if they'll have th' nerve to try to tell us to get out. Broke?" he inquired, and as they silently arose to their feet, which seemed to take a great deal of concentration, he chuckled. Then his face hardened. "Where's yore guns?" he demanded. Arch waved elaborately at the disinterested bartender. "That gent loaned us ten apiece on 'em," he said. "'Bligin' feller. Thank you, friend." "Yo're a'right," said the cook, nodding at the dispenser of fluids. "An' yo're a fine, locoed bunch, partin' with yore guns in a strange town," snapped Johnny. "You head for th' hotel, _pronto_! G'wan!" The cook turned and waved a hand at the solemn bartender. "Goo'-bye!" he called. "I _won't_ eat! Goo'-bye." Seeing them started in the right direction, Johnny went in and up to the bar. "Them infants don't need guns," he asserted, digging into a pocket, "but as long as they ain't shot themselves, yet, I'm takin' a chance. How much?"