“Thought some of it.”
“As how, Dolf?”
“Thought I might mention you was askin’ after him.”
“Um! Goin’ to tell him where I was headin’ for? Eh? Think of doin’ that?”
“Figgered I’d mention you was to your office.”
“G’-by, Dolf.”
“G’-by, Judge.”
The old man clucked to his horse: “Giddap, Tiffany! G’long there! Time’s passin’ rapid for both of us. Don’t waste none of it. G’long!” The equipage drew slowly away from the hotel and proceeded down the street at a rate of speed which came close to being no movement at all, until it came to a halt again before a frame building at the end of the block. Here the old man alighted, hitched his horse as carefully as if the animal were a two-year-old showing signs of a desire to bolt. Then he went inside.
In ten minutes a man of middle age, not at all the Diversity type of citizen, appeared in the doorway. He was below medium height, sturdily built, with a face of the aggressive-business-man variety. Dolf Springer uncoiled by a mighty effort and rose to his feet.
“Howdy, Mr. Moran!” he said.