CHAPTER XXI
ON THE WEST-BOUND
Young’s first act was to slip the purse into a pocket of his overcoat, even as his gaze darted stealthily around the waiting-room, and he summoned a smile, not a particularly gladsome smile, to his face. Joe noticed the eternal cigarette tremble between his lips. Then:
“Why, hello, Faulkner,” said Mr. Chester Young. “How are you?”
“All right, thanks,” replied Joe, his eyes unconsciously dropping for an instant to that pocket into which the fat purse had disappeared. “Sit down a minute, will you; I want to talk to you.”
“Can’t do it,” answered the other briskly, buttoning his coat with none too steady fingers. “Fact is, I’m running up to Detroit and my train is leaving in about half a minute. I suppose you were surprised to find me gone, eh? Well, you see, I got a telegram this afternoon telling me that my father was very ill and I had to beat it off on the five-two. I was going to write and explain to you. I’ll do that, anyway. Glad to have seen you again. You keep that job open for me until Saturday and I’ll be back for it. Good-night.” He held out his hand and Joe took it.
“Your train’s fifteen minutes late,” said Joe calmly. “So there’s no hurry. Sit down.” He still held Young’s hand and now pulled him gently toward the seat. Young resisted, but Joe’s clasp was a strong one, and unless he wanted to indulge in a scuffle there was nothing to do but give in. But it was a different Mr. Chester Young who faced Joe now. He tossed aside his cigarette and observed his captor defiantly.
“Well, what you got to say, Faulkner?” he demanded.
“I suppose you know why I’m here?” asked Joe.
“Never mind what I know. Get down to business. What’s your game?”
“My game’s to collect seventy-five dollars from you, Young. I ought to charge the costs of collection, too, I guess, but we’ll let that go. If you want to send nine dollars back by me to Mrs. Bennett, though, I’ll be glad to take it.”