Hibbard sputtered wrathfully while Rockwell led him across the street and to a bench in the city hall plaza. The bench was partly screened from passers-by by a clump of tall oleanders.
“Sit down, Hibbard,” said Rockwell. “I want to talk a little sense into that foolish brain of yours, if I can.”
“I don’t want to do any chinning,” protested Hibbard. “I lost a good job, and I want to get even with the chap that stole it away from me. Pembroke paid me seventy-five a month, but the ’coms’ and—er—other things brought me in a hundred and fifty, and sometimes two hundred. I ain’t a-going to be pried loose from that snap without makin’ that red-headed robber smart for it!”
“Oh, hush!” returned the garage owner impatiently. “You’re talking at the top of your voice, and it would be easy for some one to overhear you. That wouldn’t do, Hibbard; you know pesky well it might get you into trouble.”
“Me?” was the grim response. “I allow there are some others that would get into trouble, too.” He peered at Rockwell significantly. “Eh?”
“Never mind about that,” was the uneasy response. “Just cool off, will you, so we can talk sensibly.”
Hibbard seemed to get himself better in hand. His voice dropped, his manner changed, and he sank down on the bench.
“Did you give that red-headed buttinsky a job?” he asked resentfully.
“Yes.”
“If you’ve got any jobs to throw around you might toss one my way. Why in blazes did you want to hire that other yap?”