“Sure I can’t rade Frinch at all, at all!” said Smith, examining the bronze.
“It’s a Garibaldi medal. I can trust you with it?”
“Phwat d’yees mane?” Smith responded with a snap.
“This,” and Sam added confidentially in a low voice, “circulate among the shanties and scow dwellers below the North Pacific mill. Show the medal, prudently, mind, but never let it pass out of your hands.”
“I want!” responded Smith, thrusting it in his inside coat pocket. “Be it raysponsible for yees hurt?”
“Of that—well, no matter—I fear where the fellow who lost the bronze lives—there will be found the little one.” Sam had spoken in a voice so soft and low and grave that it startled Smith.
During the pause that followed, he looked at Sam in steadfast amaze.
“Do yees belave it?” he finally asked.
“I do!”
“Sure, yees do be after me own hart. I tould thim some thaivin’ blackguard——”