“Never,” replies Puttis, with his customary brevity, just letting his jaws open and shut to emit the word, much like a fox-terrier does when it snaps at a troublesome “blue-bottle.”
“Old Mr. Mundella—it was young Mundella then —was one of the first to take up-country near where you’ve just come from. And d’you know,” continues the verbose Bigger in a low tone of voice, “d’you know, they used to say at the time that it was our old friend Giles, that’s got Murdaro now, that cleaned him out of his run, and not the ‘pleuro’ (a cattle disease) at all.”
“Humph,” observes Inspector Puttis.
“Yes, that his wife’s brother did it. Well, upon my soul, I would not be surprised at anything I heard of Giles doing. Mundella was grand company, and I don’t think I ever saw a better shot at a running nigger in my life, except yourself.”
“Hah!” snorts the little man in the black, frogged jacket, “that is nothing,” and he bows in acknowledgment of the compliment paid to him by his friend. “Have lived with finger on trigger—night and day—over ten years, may say. You shot well yourself, a few years back.”
“Age making me old and shaky now, me boy,” answers Bigger; and if he had said a life of almost unrestrained licentiousness he would have been nearer to the truth. “But what have you done with your troop, Puttis?”
“Camped down creek. Four miles. Some niggers camped there. Want my ‘boys’ to pick up some information. About man I’m after.”
“Ah! a nigger?”
“Yes; perhaps you can help me.”
“With pleasure, if I can,” replied the elder Inspector, adding, “Especially, my dear fellow, as I sha’n’t feel so diffident about asking your assistance, in that case, in a little affair of my own.”