“Well,” said Hazen, “there’s no dollar of yours here.”
“It was to git medicine,” Marshey said. “It wa’n’t mine.”
Hazen Kinch exclaimed: “By God, I believe you’re accusing me!”
Marshey lifted both hands placatingly.
“No, Mr. Kinch. No, sir.” His eyes once more wandered about the room. “Mebbe I dropped it in the snow,” he said.
He turned to the door. Even in his slow shuffle there was a hint of trembling eagerness to escape. He went out and down the stairs. Hazen looked at me, his old face wrinkling mirthfully.
“You see?” he said.
I left him a little later and went out into the street. On the way to the hotel I stopped for a cigar at the drug store. Marshey was there, talking with the druggist.
I heard the druggist say: “No, Marshey, I’m sorry. I’ve been stung too often.”
Marshey nodded, humbly.