“By that you mean?” queried David, strolling toward the door.
“He’s got the rocks, Jarvis has; but my! ain’t he the screechin’ limit? I’ll bet you——”
Mr. Sutton waddled heavily after David, and seated himself comfortably in one of the big splint-bottomed chairs ranged along the piazza for the convenience of patrons.
“I’ll bet you,” he concluded, “he’s got half a million salted down, if he’s got a penny.”
“Is there a decent horse in the stable?” inquired David, after a silence, which Mr. Sutton filled in with various animal-like noises, expressive of his entire physical comfort.
“No; but I c’n git y’ one over to the livery stable. I’ll send over for it, if you say so,” Mr. Sutton responded.
“I want to find Bellows,” David said.
“Who? The auctioneer? Wall, y’ don’t need no livery hoss t’ locate Thomas. He’s over t’ Henry Maclin’s this mornin’, sellin’ out the stock. Hank’s concluded to go west. Thinks there’s more doin’ out there. But I dunno ’bout that. You mus’ know somethin’ ’bout the West?”
David was smoking a second cigarette with short, impatient puffs.
“I’ve been there,” he admitted, with a transient scowl.