“Some of it,” Ward admitted. “Not the railroad part of it, but—some of it. Well, say, Hampton, I’m sure obliged to you for that. Sell anybody, eh? That means the fellow he’s dealing with, too. Uh-huh. Bill, let’s you and me take a walk.”
Bill, with another growl, started forward again. But Douglas was not yet through.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked pointedly, moving his head toward Uncle Eb.
“That’s right,” Ward acknowledged. “I’m sorry, Mr.—uh—Williams—Wilson——”
“Wilham!” barked Eb. “I ain’t got nothin’ ag’in you. It’s this here hawg.” His frosty eyes glinted at the offensive Bill.
“How about it, Bill?” queried Ward, his tongue in his cheek.
Bill turned sourly, heavy jaw set. But he attempted amends.
“Sorry, old fella,” he mumbled. “We got a bad steer. We ain’t hoit ya, have we? We gotta do our dooty. We—uh——”
“All right, let it go at that,” Douglas interposed. All four moved out of the barn. As they emerged, Douglas began speaking a little louder, so that Steve could hear. And, to keep the pair from glancing back and perhaps seeing what was on the roof, he walked toward the house, talking over one shoulder.
“If you want to find Sanders, you’d better go straight down the road and hunt his house. He’ll probably be there at meal-time, if not before. Where does he live, Uncle Eb?”