"When was it you saw him last?" he inquired of the transplanted Bostonian.
"It was about a week ago. To be exact, it was a week Tuesday. I remember because we dined together that evening."
"Now doesn't that beat the band? Here I've gone and got him a soft snap up on the range—good pay, and little or nothing to do—and he's got to go and drop out like a monte man's little joker. It's enough to make a man swear continuous!"
"I don't think he would have gone with you," Lansdale ventured.
"Wouldn't, eh? If I can find him I'll take him by the neck and make him go; savez? How do you put it up? Runaway? or a pile of bones out on the prairie somewhere?"
"It's hard to say. Jeffard's a queer combination of good and not so good,—like a few others of us,—and just now the negative part is on top. He was pretty low the night we were together, though when we separated I thought he was taking himself a little less seriously."
"Didn't talk about getting the drop on himself, or anything like that?"
"N—no, not in a way to leave the impression that he was in any immediate danger of doing such a thing."
Bartrow chewed the end of his cigar reflectively. "Hasn't taken to quizzing the world through the bottom of a whiskey-glass?"