CHAPTER VII
WITHOUT GRATITUDE
“Well, it worked all right, kid,” remarked Buck Fargo as he caught up with Lefty on the way out to the field. “I’ll guarantee the old man didn’t even ask you a question, did he?”
“No. I was waiting for him to brace me, but it never came off. What the deuce did you tell him?”
Fargo grinned. “The truth—only not quite all of it,” he chuckled. “Wonder how our friend Elgin’s going to get out of it?”
Lefty hazarded no guess. He had more than a suspicion that his old acquaintance would manage to evade the responsibility somehow. That had always been his strong point, for he was not overburdened with scruples about sticking to the letter of the truth.
Fargo explained briefly what he had told Brennan, and then dropped back to his own crowd, leaving Locke alone. The latter was just turning into the gate of the field when some one touched his arm, and, turning, he saw Bert Elgin beside him, a frown of anxiety on his thin face.
“Look here,” the man began abruptly, “Brennan’s just put it up to me about last night, and I had to give him a song and dance to steer him off. He’s mad as a hornet, and I couldn’t very well tell him I was mixed up in that fool business. I wanted to put you wise, so if he asks you, your story can fit in with mine.”
Locke’s eyes were fixed coldly upon the other’s face. “And what was the story you told him?” he asked shortly.
“Said I was down in front with Ross, and got these scratches getting out of the place. Didn’t know anything about what started the muss, or see the fellow who—”