“I reckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr. Fowler; but he missed it by not waiting to see if you were armed. It wasn't the square thing, and you're all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have had agin' you.”
“But,” protested the unhappy Flint, “I never laid eyes on the man before, and my name isn't Fowler.”
Flynn halted, and dragged him in a door way. “Who the devil are you?” he asked roughly.
Briefly, passionately, almost hysterically, Flint told him his scant story. An odd expression came over the gambler's face.
“Look here,” he said abruptly, “I have passed my word to the crowd yonder that you are a dead-broke miner called Fowler. I allowed that you might have had some row with that Sydney duck, Australian Pete, in the mines. That satisfied them. If I go back now, and say it's a lie, that your name ain't Fowler, and you never knew who Pete was, they'll jest pass you over to the police to deal with you, and wash their hands of it altogether. You may prove to the police who you are, and how that d—- clerk mistook you, but it will give you trouble. And who is there here who knows who you really are?”
“No one,” said Flint, with sudden hopelessness.
“And you say you're an orphan, and ain't got any relations livin' that you're beholden to?”
“No one.”
“Then, take my advice, and BE Fowler, and stick to it! Be Fowler until Fowler turns up, and thanks you for it; for you've saved Fowler's life, as Pete would never have funked and lost his grit over Fowler as he did with you; and you've a right to his name.”
He stopped, and the same odd, superstitious look came into his dark eyes.