“Hello, Kite. Want to talk to you a minute.”
“Come back to my desk,” said Kite, and led the way, walking stiffly, head high, ever so much like a turkey. Jim marked this peculiarity to himself.
“Exactly like a man looking over a high fence,” he thought. “I’ll declare, it is.”
Kite sat down, tugged at his side whiskers, and bade Jim speak. The marshal looked for a place to spit, saw none, swallowed hard, and said:
“Guess you’ve heard the orders.”
“What orders?” Kite asked harshly. But his face was livid, and the veins stood out on his forehead with his effort at self-control.
“Mayor calls me up last night and tells me to stop whisky selling. Hardiston’s gone dry.”
“What has that to do with me?” Kite demanded.
The marshal did not grin. If Kite wanted to act that way, all right. It was the little man’s privilege. After all, he was outwardly respectable enough, a pillar of the church, and all that.
“Thought you might be interested,” said Jim.