“You called him Uncle Wilbur.”
“I—I guess you are mistaken,” stammered Nat, growing red in the face.
“No, we heard you as plain as day,” put in the senator’s son.
“You haven’t any right to pry into my affairs, Roger Morr! You nor Dave Porter either!”
“Perhaps not,” answered Roger.
“Look here, Nat, if we can help you we’ll do it,” came from Dave. “I suppose, if that man is your uncle, you wish to get him back to the—er—the sanitarium as quickly and as quietly as possible; is that so?”
“Wouldn’t you want to do that, if he was your uncle?” asked the money-lender’s son, flushing deeply.
“Certainly. But it looks, now, as if you couldn’t do it alone.”
“I might have done it, if you hadn’t come up and queered my game.”
“He didn’t see us until he ran out of the cabin,” said Roger. “He just got a wild streak 203 on, that’s all. I don’t think you could have managed him alone. He wouldn’t let you tie him up with that rope.”