“I don’t want a drink,” the young man answered. “I want some information. Do any of you know where Mr. Arsene Chieniere lives?”
There was silence for a moment, then Vinegar interpreted:
“He means Mr. Arson Shinny!”
“O—suttinly, suh,” Skeeter exclaimed. “He lives right straight out dis road whut goes in front of dis saloon. I seen Miss Jew-ann Shinny pass here to-day—gwine todes home.”
“Miss Juan?” the young man asked, giving the beautiful Latin pronunciation, and speaking the word like a caress.
“Dat’s de lady,” Skeeter answered. “Dey lives ten miles out on dis here road.”
“Where can I hire a flivver to take me out there?”
“I’s de only taxi-man in town,” Skeeter said, as he reached for his cap. “I’ll take you out dar in twenty minutes fer two dollars.”
“Get busy,” the young man answered, as he sat down to wait.
The other three negroes sat whispering to each other for a few minutes, then Vinegar inquired: