“Holy Smut, it’s Plucky George!” gasped one in the rear; and in a twinkling the place was cleared—nay, more, the scowling bartender himself disappeared as if by magic.
Brant linked his arm in the editor’s and led him forth into the clean night air. Neither spoke until they were nearing the Plainsman building, and then it was Forsyth who broke the silence.
“You heard what that fellow said, Brant? Are you really the Silverette man?”
“Yes. Don’t be alarmed; I’ll quit you when I have seen you safe back to your office.”
Forsyth stopped, swung around, and put his hands on the stalwart one’s shoulders.
“You are a blessed idiot—no less; and I am minded to beat you,” he protested. “Why, confound it all, man, haven’t you just saved my life?”
“That is nothing. And, besides, you wouldn’t have been there if I had not taken you.”
“No more would I; but what of that? Say, Brant, don’t play the fool. I have known this thing, or suspected it, from the first, and I’ll leave it to you to say if it has made any difference with me. I am quite willing to take you for what you are, and I don’t care a little curse what you have been. That is no affair of mine, or of anybody’s else.”
“Do you think so? The world doesn’t agree with you.”
“The world is an impudent busybody,” quoth the editor, catching step again. “Come up to my pigeon-hole and tell me all about it. I’ll stave the rush off while you do it.”