Swanson roared with delight as the Doctor rolled this off his tongue, and slapping him on the back, cried: 

“You’re the same old codger.  Haven’t changed an inch in seven years.  You’ve got to stay here a week, two weeks, a month.  I’ve plenty of sick stock, and some of the boys have horses that need polishing.”

“Yes, sah!” broke in the Doctor’s companion, a full-blooded negro.  “We’s gwine to camp down hyar shuah a monf—­”

“Hold your tongue, Scip,” said the Doctor.  “I’m the talking man here.  Yes! gentlemen,” addressing the attentive cowboys, “I can cure anything that touches the ground—­biped, quadruped, or centipede—­glanders, botts, greased hoofs, heaves, blind staggers, it makes no odds.  My universal, self-acting, double compound elixir of equestrian ointment will perform a cure in each and every case.  It is cheap!  It is sure!  It is patented!  It is the best, and it is here.  You may roll up, you may tumble up, you may walk up, any way to get up, or send your money up, and you will receive a two-quart bottle of this precious liquid, of which I am the sole owner, proprietor and manufacturer.”

Again Swanson expressed his unbounded delight, and the audience signified their entire approbation by shouting: 

“Go it, old hoss; keep it up!”

When the doctor first entered, Cummings, who was extended on a large bear skin, fastened a searching look on him, taking in every feature and article of wearing apparel, and Moriarity, who was stretched near him, regarded the new-comer with suspicious eyes, but when they witnessed the cordial greeting which Swanson gave, they dismissed their suspicions and entering into the spirit of the evening, applauded as loudly and noisily as the rest.

Scip, who had been attending to the horses outside, now stuck his head through the door and shouted: 

“Tole you what it was, Massa Doctor, dis yer chile can’t tote dat bundle in alone, nohow.”

“All right, Scip, I’ll help you,” and disregarding, with a wave of his hands, the proffers of assistance which were tendered him, the doctor stepped onto the porch and found Scip struggling with a large pack, strapped to the back of a broncho, tugging and jerking, and swearing under his breath at “the old fool rope.”

Coming close to him the doctor said aloud: 

“Be careful you black imp of Satan; what are you so rough about?” and then followed in a whisper, “the men are both there, Chip.”

Scip, or rather, Chip, adopting the same tactics, replied: 

“Honey, I’s handlin’ dis yeah smoof as cottonseed oil”—­whispering, “what a rascally-looking lot.”

The Doctor and Scip were none other than the two detectives.  When Chip reached Kansas City he hunted around for some suitable disguise which would carry him through in safety.  In his perplexity he went to the chief of police, with whom he was on the most friendly terms, and put the case before him.