“That’s all right, Harry.” The expression on the Captain’s face contrasted sharply with his quiet words. “There’ll be plenty of time for that. I’ve been feeling real slighted because you ain’t been to see me for some time. Cal’late a little conversation will do us both a heap of good, and clear up the air a mite.”
Mr. Beaver again started for the door, but the Captain reached it first. He closed it, turned the key in the lock, and put the key in his pocket.
“Now, suppose you spin the yarn to me that you’ve been spreading round town,” he said, slowly filling his pipe and offering the pouch to Harry Beaver.
Mr. Beaver spurned the weed of peace with a ferocious glare. With a little coaching the Captain brought out the story. The gist of the matter was that Mr. Beaver considered McGowan morally lax in the free way he was mixing with the boys at the Inn.
“Let’s get this straight. Who is the feller you’re talking about? Just repeat his name to me.”
“M-McGowan!” defiantly repeated Mr. Beaver.
“When mentioning him to me,”––requested the Captain in a tone that made the other man start with apprehension,––“you’ll call him Mr. McGowan. Understand that?”
Mr. Beaver seemed fully to understand, for he obeyed. When he had finished his yarn of 93 sheer nonsense, Captain Pott slowly laid his pipe on the table and his hand on the little man’s collar. He led him to the door, and opened it. Harry tugged like a bull-pup on the end of a leash, so that when the Captain released his hold––with ever so slight a shove––Mr. Beaver described a spread-eagle on the cinder path.
“If you repeat that rotten truck to another soul, I ain’t going to be responsible for what happens to you!” He shot each word at the kicking figure from between set teeth, and brushed one hand over the other as though to clean them of filth.