Smythe set the bottle on the counter and nodded.
“Yes,” he said dryly.
“Yes,” mimicked the other with an oath. “Is that all you have to say about it, then? What am I to tell Hallibut, supposing he demands his money back?”
“My dear Watson,” smirked Smythe, “don’t worry about it. I have—hem! something to say.”
“Well, what is it? Does it amount to anything? Don’t shake your harpy head off. What is it?”
“Not much, my dear Watson; not much. Simply this: Hallibut’s schooner might burn, old Injun Noah might go away to the States, and while the Bushwhackers and Hallibut engage in a fight, somebody else might get possession of the timber. Don’t you see that they will be so frightened of his taking their deeds from them by force that they will be glad to place those papers in our hands for safe-keeping?”
“I hope so, Smythe, I hope so,” said the other man; “but something tells me we’ll get what’s coming to us yet.”
“Dear Watson, you are weary and fanciful,” smiled Smythe. “Religion would make your conscience more easy. It must be a terrible thing to have a conscience such as yours, my friend.”
Smythe meant that, every word of it.
Watson looked at him, then reached for the bottle.