Just as Mr. Walker closes his remarks a knock comes at the door, and the manager’s favourite house-gin pops her red-turbaned head into the room.
“What do you want now, Oola?” Mr. Browne sharply inquires of his grinning handmaid.
The dark-skinned girl glides forward, keeping her long-fringed eyelids turned bashfully towards the earthen floor, as the men stare admiringly at her buxom figure, and then, lifting her beautiful soft eyes to her owner’s face for a brief instant, remarks that “Charlie bin come up,” and hands to the manager a piece of paper.
“Oh, a note from my brother Jim!” exclaims Manager Browne, looking meaningly at Morth.
“Ah, anything fresh?” asks the gentleman addressed, his eyes brightening. During the late controversy he has maintained a most masterly neutrality.
“Tell you directly; if I can make out his pencil scrawl.”
After sundry screwings of the managerial eyebrows, and bendings of the managerial back to the lamp upon the table, Mr. Browne ceases snorting smothered anathemas at his relation’s bad handwriting, and looking up motions with his finger the sub-inspector, whereupon both men leave the room together.
“Thought it safer to speak to you out here, Morth,” observes the manager, as soon as they are beyond earshot of the station-house. The police officer replies by nodding his head, but remembering immediately afterwards that it is too dark for Mr. Browne to see this signal of acquiescence, he proceeds to convey his meaning by observing, “Just as well.”
“I told you about the weaner,” goes on Mr. Browne, “that Jim found speared last week up Agate Creek, didn’t I?”
“You did. Has Jim picked up any tracks yet?”