Sam Marvin turned his bushy head toward the aperture in the floor. It might seem that Mrs. Marvin had left him nothing to say, but the versatility of the conjugal retort is well-nigh limitless, and he could doubtless have defended himself with an admirable valor had not Jeb “the hongry” interfered.
“Shet up, Sam,” he said, looking positively famished in his lean anxiety. “We-uns hedn’t thunk o’ that. Mink Lorey hev got ter be tried agin.”
It was all that Harshaw could do to restrain some expression of despair at this infelicitous turn given to the consultation, at which he seemed to assist to devise his own doom. He found a certain relief in shifting his position, and still, with his hands clasped under his head, briskly participated in the conversation.
“Yes,” he assented in a debonair way which caused Marvin to look at him in lowering amazement, “I’m Mink’s lawyer, but I couldn’t testify for him. I couldn’t swear of my own knowledge that this Tad is the same boy, for I never saw him before.”
Both of the men lapsed into the attitude of laborious pondering. Now and then each looked at the other, as if to descry some intimation of the mutual effect.
Harshaw, with another bold effort to possess the situation, yawned widely and stretched his muscles.
“Oh—oh—oh—oh!” he exclaimed on a steadily descending scale. “Well, gentlemen,” his features once more at rest, his voice normal, “I should be glad to continue our conversation to-morrow”—he waved his hand bluffly—“or next week. I ain’t used to huntin’,—that is, huntin’ deer,—and I’m in and about knocked up. If you’ve got anything to say to me, say it now, or keep it till to-morrow.”
The two looked doubtfully at each other.
“Mr. Harshaw,” said Marvin, “we-uns air feared to let you-uns go.”
“Go to sleep?” asked Harshaw jocosely.