“Yep. That’s ’bout all. Good story for the papers, hey?”
“An excellent story—for the horse marines,” retorted Caine. “Really, Conover,” he continued almost plaintively, “I don’t see what overt acts of idiocy I have ever committed that you should offer so vile an insult to my intelligence.”
“What d’ye mean?” queried Caleb with bland innocence.
“I mean, every word of that rigmarole is a thread in one of the clumsiest tangles of lies I have ever had the misfortune to listen to. I thought better of your inventive powers!”
“You don’t believe me?” exclaimed Conover, aggrieved.
“I’m not lucky enough to have had the Chess Queen’s training in ‘believing at least three impossible things before breakfast every morning,’” misquoted Caine. “Really, Conover, did it never occur to you that telling an unnecessary lie is almost tempting Providence?”
“The story’s true,” persisted Caleb, doggedly, “Just like I told it to you. I owned the Shevlin Contractin’ Comp’ny. Shevlin had been out of it six months. I was the one that did the graftin’ when the two buildin’s was put up. An’ I ain’t ashamed of it.”
Caine looked long, quizzically, into the light, alert eyes that so brazenly met his.
“I really believe you mean to stick to it,” he said at last. “But why? And don’t you see that a single glance at the records will disprove it all? If Shevlin really transferred his business to you, there would be a record of it.”
“There’ll be a record—if it’s needed,” countered the Fighter, “That the easiest part of it all. But it won’t be needed. My say-so will be b’lieved for once. Folks won’t s’pose a man would accuse himself of bein’ a crook if he was reelly on the square.”