“I’m all right, I tell you,” said Philo Gubb earnestly. “I’m no crook. You see Beech. Ask Beech. Have Beech come here.”
Mr. Cross looked at Mr. Green.
“You mean you fixed it with Beech so you could tell fortunes here?” asked Mr. Cross.
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” said Philo Gubb. “You get Beech.”
“Get Beech,” said Mr. Green. “Beech will throw him out.”
“I’ll watch him,” said the Chief. “If he tries to move I’ll club him.”
Mr. Cross and Mr. Green hurried away, and the Chief dangled his club meaningly. The yellow man, who had been standing awaiting the end of the controversy, seated himself on the grass and leaned his back against a tree. Philo Gubb, as evidence that he did not mean to run, also seated himself, and leaned back against the same tree. The Chief stood a short distance away, his eyes keenly on them.
“How about it, Chicago man?” asked the yellow man in a low tone, bending down to pick a blade of grass. “Kin you he’p a feller out?”
“How?” asked Philo Gubb.