by Frank Norris
IX
THE DRIVE
The Norther was a thing of the past, but it left its mark on BuckPeters, whose grimness of face told what the winter had been to him.His daily rides over the range, the reports of his men since that deadlystorm had done a great deal to lift the sagging weight that rested onhis shoulders; but he would not be sure until the round-up suppliedfacts and figures.
That the losses had not been greater he gave full credit to the valleywith its arroyos, rock walls, draws, heavily grassed range and groves oftimber; for the valley, checking the great southward drift by its steepridges of rock, sheltered the herds in timber and arroyos and fed themon the rich profusion of its grasses, which, by some trick of therushing winds, had been whirled clean of snow.
But over the cow-country, north, east, south and west, where vast rangeswere unprotected against the whistling blasts from the north, the losseshad been stupendous, appalling, stunning. Outfits had been driven on andon before the furious winds, sleepy and apathetic, drifting steadilysouthward in the white, stinging shroud to a drowsy death. Whole herds,blindly moving before the wind, left their weaker units in constantlygrowing numbers to mark the trail, and at last lay down to a sleepeternal. And astonishing and incredible were the distances traveled bysome of those herds.
Following the Norther came another menace and one which easily mightsurpass the worst efforts of the blizzard. Warm winds blew steadily, ahot sun glared down on the snow-covered plain and then came torrents ofrain which continued for days, turning the range into a huge expanse ofwater and mud and swelling the water-courses with turgid floods thatswirled and roared above their banks. Should this be quickly followedby cold, even the splendid valley would avail nothing. Ice, formingover the grasses, would prove as deadly as a pestilence; the cattle,already weakened by the hardships of the Norther, and not having theinstinct to break through the glassy sheet and feed on the grassunderneath, would search in vain for food, and starve to death. Theweek that followed the cessation of the rains started gray hairs on theforeman's head; but a warm, constant sun and warm winds dried off thewater before the return of freezing weather. The herds were saved.
Relieved, Buck reviewed the situation. The previous summer had seensuch great northern drives to the railroad shipping points in Kansasthat prices fell until the cattlemen refused to sell. Rather than drivehome again, the great herds were wintered on the Kansas ranges, ready tobe hurled on the market when Spring came with better prices. Manyranches, mortgaged heavily to buy cattle, had been on the verge ofbankruptcy, hoping feverishly for better prices the following year.Buck had taken advantage of the situation to stock his ranch at a costfar less than he had dared to dream. Then came the Norther and in thethree weeks of devastating cold and high winds the Kansas ranges wereswept clean of cattle, and even the ranges in the South were badlycrippled. Knowing this, Buck also knew that the following Spring wouldshow record high prices. If he had the cattle he could clean up afortune for his ranch; and if his herd was the first big one to reachthe railroad at Sandy Creek it would practically mean a bonus on everycow.
Under the long siege of uncertainty his impatience smashed through andpossessed him as a fever and he ordered the calf round-up three weeksearlier than it ever had been held on the ranch. There was no need ofurging his men to the task--they, like himself, sprang to the call likesprings freed from a restraining weight, and the work went on in a feverof haste. And he took his place on the firing line and worked evenharder than his outfit of fanatics.
One day shortly after the work began a stranger rode up to him andnodded cheerfully. "Li'l early, ain't you?" Buck grunted in reply andsent Skinny off at top speed to close a threatened gap in the lengthydriving line. "Goin' to git 'em on th' trail early this year?"persisted the stranger. Buck, swayed by some swift intuition, changedhis reply. "Oh, I dunno; I 'm mainly anxious to see just what thatstorm did. An' I hate th' calf burnin' so much I allus like to get itover quick." He shouted angrily at the cook and waved his armsfrantically to banish the chuck wagon. "He can make more trouble withthat waggin than anybody I ever saw," he snorted. "Get out of there,you fool!" he yelled, dashing off to see his words obeyed. The cook,grinning cheerfully at his foreman's language and heat, forthwith chosea spot that was not destined to be the center of the cut-out herd. Andwhen Buck again thought of the stranger he saw a black dot moving towardthe eastern skyline.
The crowded days rolled on, measured full from dawn to dark, each one ofthem a panting, straining, trying ordeal. Worn out, the horses wereturned back into the temporary corral or to graze under the eyes of thehorse wranglers, and fresh ones took up their work; and woe unto thewranglers if the supply fell below the demand. For the tired men therewas no relief, only a shifting in the kind of work they did, and theydrove themselves with grave determination, their iron wills overrulingtheir aching bodies. First came the big herds in the valley; then,sweeping north, they combed the range to the northern line in one grand,mad fury of effort that lasted day after day until the tally manjoyously threw away his chewed pencil and gladly surrendered the lastsheet to the foreman. The first half of the game was over. Gone as ifit were a nightmare was the confusion of noise and dust and cows thathid a remarkable certainty of method. But as if to prove it not a dream,four thousand cows were held in three herds on the great range, incharge of the extra men.
Buck, leading the regular outfit from the north line and toward thebunkhouse, added the figures of the last tally sheet to the totals hehad in a little book, and smiled with content. Behind him, cheerful asfools, their bodies racking with weariness, their faces drawn and gaunt,knowing that their labors were not half over, rode the outfit,exchanging chaff and banter in an effort to fool themselves into thedelusion that they were fresh and "chipper." Nearing the bunkhouse theycheered lustily as they caught sight of the hectic cook laboringprofanely with two balking pintos that had backed his wagon half overthe edge of a barranca and then refused to pull it back again. Cookie'sreply, though not a cheer, was loud and pregnant with feeling. To thinkthat he had driven those two animals for the last two weeks from one endof the ranch to the other without a mishap, and then have them balancehim and his wagon on the crumbling edge of a twenty-foot drop when not ahalf mile from the bunkhouse, thus threatening the loss of the wagon andall it contained and the mangling of his sacred person! And to make itworse, here came a crowd of whooping idiots to feast upon hisdiscomfiture.
The outfit, slowing so as not to frighten the devilish pintos and startthem backing again, drew near; and suddenly the air became filled withdarting ropes, one of which settled affectionately around Cookie'sapoplectic neck. In no time the strangling, furious dough-king wasbeyond the menace of the crumbling bank, flat on his back in the wagon,where he had managed to throw himself to escape the whistling hoofs thatquickly turned the dashboard into matchwood. When he managed to get therope from his neck he arose, unsteady with rage, and choked as he triedto speak before the grinning and advising outfit. Before he could getcommand over his tongue the happy bunch wheeled and sped on its way,shrieking with mirth unholy. They had saved him from probable death,for Cookie was too obstinate to have jumped from the wagon; but they notonly forfeited all right to thanks and gratitude, but deserved horribledeaths for the conversation they had so audibly carried on while theyworked out the cook's problem. And their departing words and gesturesmade homicide justifiable and a duty. It was in this frame of mind thatCookie watched them go.
Buck, emerging from the bunkhouse in time to see the rescue, leanedagainst the door and laughed as he had not laughed for oneheart-breaking winter. Drying his eyes on the back of his hand, helooked at the bouncing, happy crowd tearing southward with an energy ofarms and legs and lungs that seemed a miracle after the strain of theround-up. Just then a strange voice made him wheel like a flash, and hesaw Billy Williams sitting solemnly on his horse near the corner of thehouse.
"Hul
lo, Williams," Buck grunted, with no welcoming warmth in his voice."What th' devil brings _you_ up here?"
"I want a job," replied Billy. The two, while never enemies norinterested in any mutual disagreements, had never been friends. Theynever denied a nodding acquaintance, nor boasted of it. "That Northershore raised h--l. There 's ten men for every job, where I came from."
The foreman, with that quick decision that was his in his earlier days,replied crisply. "It's your'n. Fifty a month, to start."
"Keno. Lemme chuck my war-bag through that door an' I'm ready," smiledBilly. He believed he would like this man when he knew him better. "Ithought th' Diamond Bar, over east a hundred mile, had weathered th'storm lucky. You got 'em beat. They 're movin' heaven an' earth to geta herd on the trail, but they did n't have no job for _me_," he laughed,flushing slightly. "Sam Crawford owns it," he explained naively.
Buck laughed outright. "I reckon you did n't have much show with Sam,after that li'l trick you worked on him in Fenton. So Sam is in thiscountry? How are they fixed?"
"They aims to shove three thousan' east right soon. It's fancy pricesfor th' first herd that gets to Sandy Creek," he offered. "I heard they're havin' lots of wet weather along th' Comanchee; mebby Sam 'll havetrouble a-plenty gettin' his herd acrost. Cows is plumb aggervatin'when it comes to crossin' rivers," he grinned.
Buck nodded. "See that V openin' on th' sky line?" he asked, pointingwestward. "Ride for it till you see th' herd. Help 'em with it. We 'llpick it up t'morrow." He turned on his heel and entered the house,grave with a new worry. He had not known that there was a ranch whereBilly had said the Diamond Bar was located; and a hundred miles handicapmeant much in a race to Sandy Creek. Crawford was sure to drive as fastas he dared. He was glad that Billy had mentioned it, and the wetweather along the Comanchee--Billy already had earned his first month'spay.
All that day and the next the consolidation of the three herds and thepreparation for the drive went on. Sweeping up from the valley the twothousand three- and four-year-olds met and joined the thousand thatwaited between Little Timber and Three Rocks; and by nightfall the threeherds were one by the addition of the thousand head from Big Coulee.Four thousand head of the best cattle on the ranch spent the nightwithin gunshot of the bunkhouse and corrals on Snake Creek.
Buck, returning from the big herd, smiled as he passed the chuck-wagonand heard Cookie's snores, and went on, growing serious all too quickly.At the bunkhouse he held a short consultation with his regular outfitand then returned to the herd again while his drive crew turned eagerlyto their bunks. Breakfast was eaten by candle light and when theeastern sky faded into a silver gray Skinny Thompson vaulted into thesaddle and loped eastward without a backward glance. The sounds of hisgoing scarcely had died out before Hopalong, relieved of theresponsibilities of trail boss, shouldered others as weighty and rodeinto the north-east with Lanky at his side. Behind him, under charge ofRed, the herd started on its long and weary journey to Sandy Creek,every man of the outfit so imbued with the spirit of the race that evenwith its hundred miles' advantage the Diamond Bar could not afford towaste an hour if it hoped to win.
Out of the side of a verdant hill, whispering and purling, flowed asmall stream and shyly sought the crystal depths of a rock-bound poolbefore gaining courage enough to flow gently over the smooth granite lipand scurry down the gentle slope of the arroyo. To one side of ittowered a splinter of rock, slender and gray, washed clean by the recentrains. To the south of it lay a baffling streak a little lighter thanthe surrounding grass lands. It was, perhaps, a quarter of a mile wideand ended only at the horizon. This faint band was the Dunton trail,not used enough to show the strong characteristics of the depressedbands found in other parts of the cow-country. If followed it wouldlead one to Dunton's Ford on the Comanchee, forty miles above West Bend,where the Diamond Bar aimed to cross the river.
The shadow of the pinnacle drew closer to its base and had crossed thepool when Skinny Thompson rode slowly up the near bank of the ravine,his eyes fixed smilingly on the splinter of rock. He let his mountnuzzle and play with the pool for a moment before stripping off thesaddle and turning the animal loose to graze. Taking his rifle in thehope of seeing game, he went up to the top of the hill, glanced westwardand then turned and gazed steadily into the northeast, sweeping slowlyover an arc of thirty degrees. He stood so for several minutes and thengrunted with satisfaction and returned to the pool. He had caught sightof a black dot far away on the edge of the skyline that split into twoparts and showed a sidewise drift. Evidently his friends would be ontime. Of the herd he had seen no sign, which was what he had expected.
When at last he heard hoofbeats he arose lazily and stretched, chidinghimself for falling asleep, and met his friends as they turned intosight around the bend of the hill. "Reckoned you might 'a' got lost,"he grinned sleepily.
"G'wan!" snorted Lanky.
"What'd you find?" eagerly demanded Hopalong.
"Three thousan' head on th' West Bend trail five days ahead of us,"replied Skinny. "Ol' Sam is drivin' hard." He paused a moment. "Actslike he knows we 're after him. Anyhow, I saw that feller that visitedus on th' third day of th' round-up. So I reckon Sam knows."
Lanky grinned. "He won't drive so hard later. I 'd like to see himwhen he sees th' Comanchee! Bet it's a lake south of Dunton's 'cordin'to what we found. But it ain't goin' to bother us a whole lot."
Hopalong nodded, dismounted and drew a crude map in the sand of thetrail. Skinny watched it, grave and thoughtful until, all at once, heunderstood. His sudden burst of laughter startled his companions andthey exchanged foolish grins. It appeared that from Dunton's Fordnorth, in a distance of forty miles, the Comanchee was practically born.So many feeders, none of them formidable, poured into it that in thatdistance it attained the dignity of a river. Hopalong's plan was todrive off at a tangent running a little north from the regular trail andthus cross numerous small streams in preference to going on straight andfacing the swollen Comanchee at Dunton's Ford. As the regular trailturned northward when not far from Sandy Creek they were not losingtime. Laughing gaily they mounted and started west for the herd whichtoiled toward them many miles away. Thanks to the forethought that hadprompted their scouting expedition the new trail was picked out inadvance and there would be no indecision on the drive.
Eighty miles to the south lay the fresh trail of the Diamond Bar herd,and five days' drive eastward on it, facing the water-covered lowlandsat West Bend, Sam Crawford held his herd, certain that the river wouldfall rapidly in the next two days. It was the regular ford, and thebest on the river. The water did fall, just enough to lure him to stay;but, having given orders at dark on the second night for an attempt atcrossing at daylight the next morning, he was amazed when dawn showedhim the river was back to its first level.
Sam was American born, but affected things English and delighted inspelling "labor" and like words with a "u." He hated hair chaps andmaintained that the gun-play of the West was mythical and existed onlyin the minds of effete Easterners. Knowing that, it was startling tohear him tell of Plummer, Hickock, Roberts, Thompson and a host of othergunmen who had splotched the West with blood. Not only did every man ofthat section pack a gun, but Crawford, himself, packed one, thus provinghimself either a malicious liar or an imbecile. He acted as though theWest belonged to him and that he was the arbiter of its destiny and itschosen historian--which made him troublesome on the great, free ranges.Only that his pretensions and his crabbed, irascible, childish tempermade him ludicrous he might have been taken seriously, to his sorrow.Failing miserably at law, he fled from such a precarious livelihood,beset with a haunting fear that he had lost his grip, to an inheritedranch. This fear that pursued him turned him into a carping critic ofthose who excelled him in most things, except in fits of lying about theWest as it existed at that time.
When he found that the river was over the lowlands again he becamefurious and, carried away by rage, shouted down the
wiser counsel of hisclear-headed night boss and ordered the herd into the water. Here andthere desperate, wild-eyed steers wheeled and dashed back through thecordon of riders, their numbers constantly growing as the panic spread.The cattle in the front ranks, forced into the swirling stream by thepressure from the rear, swam with the current and clambered out below,adding to the confusion. Steers fought throughout the press andsuddenly, out of the right wing of the herd, a dozen crazed animalsdashed out in a bunch for the safety of the higher ground; and afterthem came the herd, an irresistible avalanche of maddened beef. It wasnot before dark that they were rounded up into a nervous, panicky herdonce more. The next morning they were started north along the river, totry again at Dunton's Ford, which they reached in three days, and whereanother attempt at crossing the river proved in vain.
Meanwhile the Bar-20 herd pushed on steadily with no confusion. Itcrossed the West Run one noon and the upper waters of the LittleComanchee just before dark on the same day. Next came East Run, PawneeCreek and Ten Mile Creek, none of them larger than the stream the cattlewere accustomed to back on the ranch. Another day's drive brought themto the west branch of the Comanchee itself, the largest of all therivers they would meet. Here they were handled cautiously and "nudged"across with such care that a day was spent in the work. The followingafternoon the east branch held them up until the next day and then, witha clear trail, they were sent along on the last part of the longjourney.
When Sam Crawford, forced to keep on driving north along the LittleComanchee, saw that wide, fresh trail, he barely escaped apoplexy andadded the finishing touches to the sullenness of his outfit. Seeing theherd across, he gave orders for top speed and drove as he never haddriven before; and when the last river had been left behind he put thenight boss in charge of the cattle and rode on ahead to locate hisrivals of the drive. Three days later, when he returned to his herd, hewas in a towering fury and talked constantly of his rights and an appealto law, and so nagged his men that mutiny stalked in his shadow.
When the Bar-20 herd was passing to the south of the little village ofDepau, Hopalong turned back along the trail to find the Diamond Barherd. So hard had Sam pushed on that he was only two days' drive behindRed and his outfit when Hopalong rode smilingly into the Diamond Barcamp. He was talking pleasantly of shop to some of the Diamond Barpunchers when Sam dashed up and began upbraiding him and threateningdire punishment. Hopalong, maintaining a grave countenance, took thelacing meekly and humbly as he winked at the grinning punchers.Finally, after exasperating Sam to a point but one degree removed fromexplosion, he bowed cynically, said "so-long" to the friendly outfit andloped away toward his friends. Sam, choking with rage, berated hispunchers for not having thrown out the insulting visitor and commandedmore speed, which was impossible. Reporting to Red the proximity oftheir rivals, Hopalong fell in line and helped drive the herd a littlefaster. The cattle were in such condition from the easy traveling ofthe last week that they could easily stand the pace if Crawford's herdcould. So the race went on, Red keeping the same distance ahead dayafter day.
Then came the night when Sandy Creek lay but two days' drive away. Astorm had threatened since morning and the first lightning of the drivewas seen. The cattle were mildly restless when Hopalong rode in atmidnight and he was cheerfully optimistic. He was also very much awake,and after trying in vain to get to sleep he finally arose and rode backalong the trail toward the stragglers, which Jimmy and Lanky wereholding a mile away. Red had pushed on to the last minute of daylightand Lanky had decided to hold the stragglers instead of driving them upto the main herd so they would start even with it the following morning.It was made up of the cattle that had found the drive too much for themand was smaller than the outfit had dared to hope for.
Hopalong had just begun to look around for the herd when it passed himwith sudden uproar. Shouting to a horseman who rode furiously past, heswung around and raced after him, desperately anxious to get in front ofthe stampede to try to check it before it struck the main herd and madethe disaster complete. For the next hour he was in a riot of maddenedcattle and shaved death many times by the breadth of a hand. He couldhear Jimmy and Lanky shouting in the black void, now close and now faraway. Then the turmoil gradually ceased and the remnant of the herdpaused, undecided whether to stop or go on. He flung himself at it andby driving cleverly managed to start a number of cows to milling, whichsoon had the rest following suit. The stampede was over. A cursing blotemerged from the darkness and hailed. It was Lanky, coldly ferocious.He had not heard Jimmy for a long time and feared that the boy might belying out on the black plain, trampled into a shapeless mass of flesh.One stumble in front of the charging herd would have been sufficient.
Daylight disclosed the missing Jimmy hobbling toward the breakfast fireat the cook wagon. He was bruised and bleeding and covered with dirt,his clothes ripped and covered with mud; and every bone and muscle inhis body was alive with pain.
The Diamond Bar's second squad had ridden in to breakfast when ahorseman was seen approaching at a leisurely lope. Sam, cursing hotly,instinctively fumbled at the gun he wore at his thigh in defiance to hisbelief concerning the wearing of guns. He blinked anxiously as thepuncher stopped at the wagon and smiled a heavy-eyed salutation. Thenight boss emerged from the shelter of the wagon and grinned a sheepishwelcome. "Well, Cassidy, you fellers got th' trail somehow. We wassome surprised when we hit yore trail. How you makin' it?"
"All right, up to last night," replied Hopalong, shaking hands with thenight boss. "Got a match, Barnes?" he asked, holding up an unlightedcigarette. They talked of things connected with the drive and Hopalongcautiously swung the conversation around to mishaps, mentioning severalcatastrophes of past years. After telling of a certain stampede he hadonce seen, he turned to Barnes and asked a blunt question. "What wouldyou do to anybody as stampeded yore stragglers within a mile of th' mainherd on a stormy night?" The answer was throaty and rumbling. "Why,shoot him, I reckon." The others intruded their ideas and Crawfordsquirmed, his hand seeking his gun under the pretense of tightening hisbelt.
Hopalong arose and went to his horse, where a large bundle of canvas wasstrapped behind the saddle. He loosened it and unrolled it on theground. "Ever see this afore, boys?" he asked, stepping back. Barnesleaped to his feet with an ejaculation of surprise and stared at thecanvas. "Where'd you git it?" he demanded. "That's our old wagoncover!"
Hopalong, ignoring Crawford, looked around the little group and smiledgrimly. "Well, last night our stragglers was stampeded. Lanky told mehe saw somethin' gray blow past him in th' darkness, an' then th' herdstarted. We managed to turn it from th' trail an' so it did n't set offour main herd. Jimmy was near killed--well, you know what it is to rideafore stampeded cows. I found this cover blowed agin' a li'l clump oftrees, an' when I sees yore mark, I reckoned I ought to bring it back."He dug into his pocket and brought out a heavy clasp knife. "I justhappened to see this not far from where th' herd started from, so Ireckoned I 'd return it, too." He held it out to Barnes, who took itwith an oath and wheeled like a flash to face his employer.
Crawford was backing toward the wagon, his hand resting on the butt ofhis gun, and a whiteness of face told of the fear that gripped him. "I'll take my time, right now," growled Barnes. "D--d if I works anotherday for a low-lived coyote that 'd do a thing like that!" The punchersbehind him joined in and demanded their wages. Hopalong, still smiling,waved his hand and spoke. "Don't leave him with all these cows on hishands, out here on th' range. If you quits him, wait till you get toSandy Creek. He ain't no man, he ain't; he 's a nasty lil brat of a kidthat couldn't never grow up into a man. So, that bein' true, he ain'tgoin' to get handled like a man. I 'm goin' to lick him, 'stead ofshootin' him like he was a man. You know," he smiled, glancing aroundthe little circle, "us cowpunchers don't never carry guns. We don'tswear, nor wear chaps, even if all of us has got 'em on right now. Wesay 'please' an' 'thank you' an' never get mad. Not never wearin' a gunI
can't shoot him; but, by G--d, I can lick him th' worst he's ever beenlicked, an' I 'm goin' to do it right now." He wheeled to start afterthe still-backing cowman, and leaped sideways as a cloud of smokeswirled around his hips. Crawford screamed with fear and pain as hisColt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of thewagon. Terror gripped him and made him incapable of flight. Who wasthis man, _what_ was he, when he could draw and fire with such speed andremarkable accuracy? Crawford's gun had been half raised before theother had seen it. And before his legs could perform one of their mostcherished functions the limping cowpuncher was on him, doing his best tomake good his promise. The other half of the Diamond Bar drive crew,attracted by the commotion at the chuck wagon, rode in with ready guns,saw their friends making no attempt at interference, asked a few tersequestions and, putting up their guns, forthwith joined the circle ofinterested and pleased spectators to root for the limping redhead.
Crawford's Colt tore loose from his fingers and droppednear the wagon wheel]
* * * * *
Red, back at the Bar-20 wagon, inquired of Cookie the whereabouts ofHopalong. Cookie, still smarting under Jimmy's galling fire oflanguage, grunted ignorance and a wish. Red looked at him, scowling."You can talk to th' Kid like that, mebby; but you get a civil tongue inyore head when any of us grown-ups ask questions." He turned on hisheel, looked searchingly around the plain and mounting, returned to theherd, perplexed and vexed. As he left the camp, Jimmy hobbled aroundthe wagon and stared after him. "Kid!" he snorted. "Grown-ups!" hesneered. "Huh!" He turned and regarded Cookie evilly. "Yo 're gonnaget a good lickin' when I get so I can move better," he promised.Cookie lifted the red flannel dish-rag out of the pan and regarded itthoughtfully. "You better wait," he agreed pleasantly. "You can't runnow. I 'm honin' for to drape this mop all over yore wall-eyed face;but I can wait." He sighed and went back to work. "Wish Red wouldshove you in with th' rest of th' cripples back yonder, an' get youoff'n my frazzled nerves."
Jimmy shook his head sorrowfully and limped around the wagon again,where he resumed his sun bath. He dozed off and was surprised to becalled for dinner. As he arose, grunting and growling, he chanced tolook westward, and his shout apprised his friends of the return of themissing red-head.
Hopalong dismounted at the wagon and grinned cheerfully, despite thesuspicious marks on his face. Giving an account of events as theyoccurred at the Diamond Bar chuck wagon, he wound up with: "Needn't pushon so hard, Red. Crawford's herd is due to stay right where it is an'graze peaceful for a week. I heard Barnes give th' order before I left.How's things been out here while I was away?"
Red glared at him, ready to tell his opinion of reckless fools that wentup against a gun-packing crowd alone when his friends had never beenknown to refuse to back up one of their outfit. The words hung on hislips as he waited for a chance to launch them. But when that chancecame he had been disarmed by the cheerfulness of his happy friend."Hoppy," he said, trying to be severe, "yo 're nothing' but a crazy,d--d fool. But what did they say when you started for huffy Sam likethat?"