“A man with a busted what?” inquired the lady suspiciously.
“A busted slat,” repeated Mr. Connors. “Dis guy falls down a clift and caves in a few spare-ribs. Dat’s on de level, lady. I ain’t kiddin’ wid yer.”
“You mean the man is wounded?”
“Dat’s it. He’s all in an’ down an’ out.”
“Where—where is this person?” The minister’s wife put the question with preliminary symptoms of relenting. If some one were genuinely in distress, she must probe the facts.
“Right up de railroad about three-quarters of a mile from here.”
The lady was considering. While she did so the beast below made a sound as if licking his chops with the relish of keen anticipation.
“When my husband and son come home,” ruled the woman at last, “they will investigate your story. Of course they may not get home to-night—the boat is usually a few hours late.”
Once more Mr. Connors groaned.
“Meanwhile,” added the lady, “I’ll call off the dog. You can vamoose.”