“Oh, shut up!” he said. “I ain't your brother.”
“What's the matter with you, Joe?” asked Rapp. “You act sore.”
“Sore nothin'! I'm sick at my stummik. You'd be if you had to drive a pole-cat around the county all day.”
“Now, Brother Venby,” said Mr. Briggles pleadingly, “you misunderstood me entirely. If you will let me explain—”
“You go and explain to your grandmother,” said Joe roughly. “You can't explain to me. If I didn't have on my dep'ty sheriff badge, I'd come out there and do some explainin' with a wagon spoke on my own account. Say, George, did this feller get a rig from you once to take a young girl that he brought down from Derlingport, to a 'good home'? Nice little girl, wasn't she? Where d'you suppose he took her? Mrs. Crink's! Say, come in here a minute.”
Rapp went into the office and Joe closed the door. A hostler led the team to the rear of the stable, and Mr. Briggles, as if feeling a protective influence in the presence of Mrs. Potter, moved nearer to her. He pushed back his cap and wiped his forehead.
“In this charity work we meet the opposition of all rough characters, Madame,” he began suavely, but she interrupted him.
“You 're the man that's pestering Peter Lane, ain't you?” she asked.
“Only within the law, only within the law!” said Mr. Briggles soothingly. “I act only for the Society, and the Society keeps within the law.”
“Law—fiddlesticks!” said Mrs. Potter. “What's this nonsense about putting Peter Lane in jail?”