“I thought he was in prison?” exclaimed the ironmaster when the two were closeted.
“Do you ever read your paper?”
“I haven’t looked at one since Plymouth.”
“Well, I howked him out first thing yesterday morning.”
“You did, Thrush?”
“Why not? I had need of the fellow, and that part of the game was up.”
Mr. Upton showed symptoms of his old irritability under the Thrush mannerism.
“My good fellow, I wish to goodness you’d explain yourself!”
“If I cared to be profane,” returned Thrush, mixing drinks in the corner, “I should refer you to the first chapter of the Book of Job. I provided the prisoner, and I’d a perfect right to take him away again. Blessed be the song of the Thrush!”
“You say you provided him?”