“You see I’m back again,” I announced cheerfully. “No use asking if you have renewed Buster’s license.”
“Yes. I got it out,” he replied, and though he paused in his work long enough to glance up at me he did not smile.
Such a different tinker! Something must have gone wrong. I glanced about the little shop. The place had been stripped. Except for the saucepan, a couple of pots, and his tools, all on the work-bench at his side, there was no evidence of his trade. The heaps of old brass, copper, and wrought iron that had filled all the corners were gone.
“You’ve had a clearing out,” I said, letting him see me looking about the shop.
“Thieves,” he replied, in the same colorless tone. “Broke in and carried off everything. These are new.” He motioned to the few tools beside him.
“Where was Buster?”
“I had him killed.”
I could not believe my ears. And the tragedy of the man’s eyes!
“You had Buster killed! What had he done?”
“He hadn’t done nothin’ but what he had oughter do—what I’d taught ’im to do.” His tone reminded me of a dense fog so saturated with grayness. “He bit a postman.”