“Well, anyways, after that I went out to try an’ do somethin’, but about all I could do was to hire ’bout half a dozen hobos who were goin’ through from Chicago, and I was takin’ them down to Enright so’s he could vote ’em at all the prim’ries, you know, and I happened to look up—and there I see Bailey.”
“What was he doing, did you say?” asked Garwood with the morbid fascination the recital of some painful fact has for the one it most concerns.
“Oh, he was just moseyin’ along the street with Rankin, you know that slow, splay-footed, knock-kneed way he has of walking, don’t you? Oh—there’s no doubt it’s him!”
Garwood slowly swallowed his drink, and had just turned to speak again, when Pusey entered.
“Did you know Bailey’s here?” he demanded.
Pusey walked straight to the desk, and he had lifted the bottle before he replied:
“Yes.”
“When did you hear?” Garwood asked.
“Just now. I repaired here instantly to apprise you.”
“You did!” said Garwood. “Well, where in hell are you going to repair to next to do something about it? Where did you see him?”