Neighbor came forward, with an air of relief.
“Why—er—not exactly; but I’d just as lief as not. And it’ll be easier for me, now it’s getting so dark. You see,” he said confidentially, “I’m shadowing you!”
“You’re—what?”
“Shadowing you. You seemed to have plenty of money; and I thought,” said Neighbor hopefully, “that I might catch you doing something wrong and blackmail you.”
“Are you trying to break into jail?” demanded Baca sharply. “You are either intoxicated or mentally deficient. In either case——”
“No, no,” said Neighbor soothingly. “I’m not drunk. I really need the money.”
“Except that I doubt your sanity,” said the outraged lawyer, “I’d make you regret this bitterly. Do you know who I am?”
“Sure! You’re Tavy Baca—Boss, Prosecuting Attorney and two-gun man. And please don’t talk that way about me,” Neighbor pleaded in an injured voice. “It makes me feel bad. You wouldn’t like it yourself. Don’t you know me? I’m not insane. I’m Jones—Neighbor Jones. I’ve been bucking the poker game at Beck’s. But there—you don’t know about the poker game, of course—you being Prosecuting Attorney and all.”
“See here!” said Baca with a dull, ugly note, “if you’re looking for trouble you can get enough for a mess!”
“Not trouble—money!”