Wint said nothing to that. He was wondering if it were a part of his job to look out for Hetty, and that drunken man of the court.
“That’s what being Mayor amounts to,” Amos remarked. “Found it so, haven’t you?”
Wint stirred in his chair. “Amos,” he said, “a thing happened last night. I feel like telling you about it. Don’t need to ask you not to pass it on.”
Amos tilted his head on one side, squinting at Wint wisely. “That’s all right,” he said. “Tell on.”
The permission relieved Wint immensely; he felt as though he had been loosed from bondage. He told, in a swift rush of words, the story of Hetty. How she had come home last night. He went on, told about the man in court that day. He told Amos what had happened, what he had done, the order he had given Radabaugh.
Amos looked at him curiously. “Told Jim that, did you?”
“Yes.”
“What did Foster say?”
Wint grinned. “Said he’d be damned.”
“I reckon not,” Amos decided, after a moment’s thought. “He won’t be. He’s all right.”