“Hello, Joe!”
There was silence.
The other spoke again:
“Tough luck, Dave! Sorry to grab you like this. Feeling better?”
“Some,” said Dave Henderson.
Barjan nodded his head.
“It was touch and go with you,” he said. “Bad leg, bad fever—you've been laying like a dead man since the night they found you in the freight car.” Dave Henderson made no reply. There wasn't any door to shut now, and he wouldn't have to move now... until he went away with Joe there... back to 'Frisco. He wasn't squealing... stacked cards... a new deal with a new pack perhaps... some day... he wasn't squealing... but he couldn't fight any more... not now... he couldn't fight... he was too weak.
“I've been hanging around two or three days waiting for you to come out of dreamland, so's I could ask you a question,” said Barjan pleasantly. “Come across, Dave! Where'd you put that little package you had with you when you beat it from the car, and handed Baldy the broken ribs?”
Dave Henderson smiled. He was very weak, miserably weak, it was an effort to talk; but his brain, because there wasn't any pain, was clear—clear enough to match Barjan's.
“Come again?” said Dave Henderson.