At the end of the half-hour the liveryman dove into his office for a
coat, which he put on. This indicated that he contemplated exercising in
the sun instead of sitting still in the shade.

"Well, let's look him up," said he. "This may be the time he busts his
fool head."

"Hope not," was Tally's comment; "can't afford to lose a foreman."

But near the outskirts of town they met Roaring Dick limping painfully
down the middle of the road. His hat was gone and he was liberally
plastered with the soft mud of early spring.

Not one word would he vouchsafe, but looked at them all malevolently.
His intoxication seemed to have evaporated with his good spirits. As
answer to the liveryman's question as to the whereabouts of the smashed
rig, he waved a comprehensive hand toward the suburbs. At insistence, he
snapped back like an ugly dog.

"Out there somewhere," he snarled. "Go find it! What the hell do I care
where it is? It's mine, isn't it? I paid you for it, didn't I? Well, go
find it! You can have it!"

He tramped vigorously back toward the main street, a grotesque figure
with his red-brown hair tumbled over his white, nervous countenance of
the pointed chin, with his hooked nose, and his twinkling chipmunk eyes.

"He'll hit the first saloon, if you don't watch out," Bob managed to
whisper to Tally.