"Who is next on that list of yours?" asked the man called Hunk, presently.
"Paul Barbridge, and I want to do him up good. He was the foreman of the jury that sent me up for two years."
"Has he got money?"
"I think so—leastwise, I am going to find out," and the speaker gave a low chuckle. "Oh, I ain't going to let up until I run through the whole twelve or their families. And then I am going to strike the judge—and strike him good and hard. I'll show 'em that they can't send Pud Frodel to prison and not get paid back! I said I'd get square when I was sentenced and I am going to keep my word. Fairchild died on me, but I reckon I fixed his widow for it."
There was another pause, during which both men prepared to eat some of the provisions they had brought with them. Dave was on the point of rejoining his companions, when the men began to speak again and now their words filled him with amazement.
"You're a queer one, Pud," said the man called Hunk. "A queer one, I must say. Sometimes I wonder to myself how I can stick to you."
"Well, you haven't got to stick if you don't want to."
"I know that. But you want me, don't you?"
"I like to have somebody, and—you like your share, eh?" And the short man laughed harshly. "I've been square, haven't I?"
"Yes, to the cent—and that is why I stick to you. But you do such queer things. Now, for instance, those schoolboys——"