"We should like to have a few minutes' private conversation with you, Mr. Marshal," said Bacon, lowering his voice.
"Fire away, gents."
"I—ahem!—I said private, Mr. Crow."
"Well, if it's anything you don't want the birds to hear, I guess we'd better go up to the house. If you don't mind that woodpecker up yander an' them two sparrers out there in the road, I guess this is about as private a place as you'll find in Tinkletown."
"Haven't you—an office, Mr. Crow?" demanded Mr. Bacon.
"Yes, but it ain't private. Whenever I've got anything private to 'tend to—er even think about—I allus go out in the middle of the street. Shoot ahead; nobody'll hear you."
"It will take some little time," explained Mr. Bonaparte, anxiously. "Have you had your dinner?"
Anderson looked at him keenly. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Mr. Bonaparte means supper," explained Mr. Bacon. "He is a bit excited, Mr. Crow."
"He must be," agreed Anderson, glancing at his watch. "Half-past six. Go ahead. We won't be interrupted now till it's time to go to bed."