“You accuse yourself, sir. Were you expecting arrest? That sounds like a bad conscience.”
“Don’t you worry about my conscience. ‘If I’ve ever done anything I’m sorry for I’m glad of it.’ Now this Stratton party—is he some aged and venerable? ’Cause, if he is, I waive ceremony and seek him in his lair at the witching hour of two this tarde. And if not, not.”
“He’s old enough—even if there were no other reasons.”
“Never mind any other reasons. It shall never be said that I fail to reverence gray hairs. I’ll be there.”
“I guess I’ll just wait and see that you go,” said the Marshal.
“Have you got any papers for me?” asked Jeff politely.
“No.”
“This is my room,” said Jeff. “This is my fist. This is me. That is my door. Open it, Leo. Mr. Hobart, you will now make rapid forward motions with your feet, alternately, like a man removing his company from where it is not desired—or I’ll go through you like a domesticated cyclone. See you at two, sharp!” Hobart obeyed. He was a good judge of men.
Jeff closed the door. “‘We went upon the battlefield,’” he said plaintively, “‘before us and behind us, and every which-a-way we looked, we seen a roscerhinus.’ We went into another field—behind us and before us, and every which-a-way we looked, we seen a rhinusorus. Mr. Lake has been evidently browsin’ and pe-rusing around, and poor old Pappy, not being posted, has likely been narratin’ about Charley’s ankle and how I had a chill. Wough-ough!”