all, yo're down here to help me out of a hole. Dig up some more cartridges, you maverick!"
"Don't you reckon I got brains enough to run it off?" demanded his friend.
"An' some to spare," replied Johnny; "but I ain't no idjut, myself. Here; call yore choice," and he reached for his belt.
"Yo're slow, Kid," chuckled Hopalong, holding out his hand. "Call it yourself."
Johnny hesitated, pushed back the cartridges and placed his hand on those of his friend. "You went at that like you was pullin' a gun: an' I can't say nothin' that means anythin' faster. Why th' hurry?"
"Habit, I reckon," gravely replied his friend. "Savin' time, mebby; I dunno why, you chump!"
"It's a good habit; an' I'm shore you saved considerable time, which same I'm aimin' to waste," replied Johnny. He thought swiftly. Last time he had called "even," and lost. He was certain that Hopalong wanted the task. How would his friend figure? The natural impulse of a slow-witted man would be to change the number. Hopalong was not slow-witted; on the contrary so far from slow-witted that he very likely would be suspicious of the next step in reasoning and go a step further, which would take him back to the act of the slow-witted, for he knew that the cogitating man in front of him was no simpleton. Odd or even: a simple choice; but in this instance it was a battle of keen wits. Johnny raised his own hand and looked down at his friend's, the upper one clasping and covering the lower; and then into the night-hidden eyes, which were squinting between narrowed lids to make their
