“I wouldn’t bother if I were you. But you haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“Well,” responded Shevlin, with an air of casting all possible reserve to the winds, “I wanted you to kind of get a line on what you’re up against. Why not take your medicine graceful and quit?”
“Is that any affair of yours?”
“Sure, it’s my affair. Do you s’pose I’m settin’ here just to hand out ree-fined conversation with you this time of night? You’ve put me to a whole lot of bother lately, Mr. Standish. I’ve had all I could do sometimes to block the game ahead of you on this tour. An’ then, to-night——”
“So it was you——”
“I done my best,” assented Shevlin modestly.
“Hold on!” he continued, as Clive jumped up. “Hold on, Mr. Standish! Don’t you get wedded to the idee that ’twas me who kicked up that row over the girl nor the scrap that followed. That ain’t my line. The Boss’ll skin me alive fer lettin’ you make such a pose in the limelight as you did when you butted in as the heero and copped off that rescue. All I did was to organize the cheerin’ party, and post that guy what to say when he was nabbed. I’d ’a’ got away with it all without a break, at that, only this Grafton gang ain’t got no ree-finement. They has to go an’ make a toadpie of the whole party.”
Clive sat down again. He realized that the little heeler, for his own interest, was telling the truth in disclaiming all share in the riot’s later stages. He was curious, too, to learn what else Shevlin had to say.
“So it was a Pyrrhic victory for you after all, you think?” suggested Standish.
“Pyrrhic?” mused Billy, thoughtfully. “Must ’a’ run on some of the Western tracks. No skate of that name ever won a vict’ry here in the East. Someone’s been stringin’ you about that, I guess, Mr. Standish.”