“Aw, keep still and you’ll hear more. They stand for Some Man and Good People. Well, as I was a-saying, Billy he seemed to think it wasn’t you. He stuck to it that Buttinski—that’s what he calls you—was in a garden just when the bank was robbed.”
Johnny contemplated the apple tree over his head. It was a wandering and sober glance, but a muscle twitched in his cheek, and he made no further explanation about the garden.
“And then I remembered about Nigger Babe throwin’ you off, and I began to think maybe you didn’t crack the safe after all. And there was some other things—little things—that made Billy and Jimmy Phillips—he was takin’ cards in the game too—made ’em think maybe it was Lake; but it wasn’t no proof—not to say proof. And there’s where I come in.”
“Well?” said Jeff, as Johnny paused.
“Simple enough, once you knowed how,” said Johnny modestly. “I’d been reading lots of them detective books—Sherlock Holmes and all them fellows. I got Billy to have his folks toll Lake’s sister away for the night, so she wouldn’t be scared. Then me and Billy and Jimmy Phillips and Monte, we broke in and blowed up Lake’s private safe. No trouble at all. Since the bank-robbin’ every one had been tellin’ round just how it ought to be done—crackin’ safes. Funny how a fellow picks up little scraps of useful knowledge like that—things you’d think he’d remember might come in handy most any time—and then forgets all about ’em. I wrote it down this time. Won’t forget it again.”
“Well?” said Jeff again.
“Oh, yes. And there was the nice money—all the notes and all of the gold he could tote.”
Jeff’s eye wandered to the new saddle.
“I kept some of the yellow stuff as a souvenir—half a quart, or maybe a pint,” said Johnny. “I don’t want no reward for doin’ a good deed.... And that’s all.”
“Lake is a long, ugly word,” said Jeff thoughtfully.