“Hello, Short!” he cried out. “Gracious, man, what a mustache you are wearing; I wouldn’t have known you. I’m glad to see you.”
“I doubt that. And don’t call me Short; I’ve registered here as Johnson, so call me Tom. I’ve just got here and I’m going to leave by the midnight special. I don’t care to have anybody who knew me a year ago know I’ve been in town.”
“I suppose not; not if you’re still on that lay of hurting Osborn.”
“Of course I’m still on that lay,” said Short in sudden passion, “and I’ll continue on that lay until that fellow gets just as nasty a turn as he did me. When that account is squared I’ll forget him. I’ve come down for the particular reason of telling you I’m not satisfied with the way you’ve handled your part of the job. I’ve come to tell you that you’ve got to take a brace.”
“None could have done it better, Short. If it hadn’t been that he voluntarily took the watch out to show it he never could have explained away his possession of it. I wrote you all about that. I did my part well.”
“Yes, but I planned it,” growled the other; “and it is only success that proves a thing nowadays.”
“You only planned part of it; you didn’t know anything about his uncle sending him the watch as a present, nor of the letter.”
“Neither did you. That should have made things easier for you. I believe you’re welching, that’s my opinion; and look here, if you are, and I don’t get Osborn, why I’ll get you good and hard. And you’d better believe I mean business.”
Short spoke savagely, his temper strongly aroused.
“Now look here, Short,” interposed the other, “I’ve not welched, and you ought to know it. But I’ll admit I’m sick of my job and I’m going to ask you to let me out of it.”