“Suh, there’s gain’ to be a bust-up, but I know who’s comin’ out on the top. That Felix Marchand and his roughs can’t down you. I hear and see a lot, and there’s two or three things I was goin’ to put befo’ you; yeth-’ir.”
He unloaded his secret information to his friend, and was rewarded by Ingolby suddenly shaking his hand warmly.
“That’s the line,” Ingolby said decisively. “When do you go over to Manitou again to cut old Hector Marchand’s hair? Soon?”
“To-day is his day—this evening,” was the reply.
“Good. You wanted to know what the wig and the habitant’s clothes are for, Berry—well, for me to wear in Manitou. In disguise I’m going there tonight among them all, among the roughs and toughs. I want to find out things for myself. I can speak French as good as most of ‘em, and I can chew tobacco and swear with the best.”
“You suhly are a wonder,” said the old man admiringly. “How you fin’ the time I got no idee.”
“Everything in its place, Berry, and everything in its time. I’ve got a lot to do to-day, but it’s in hand, and I don’t have to fuss. You’ll not forget the wig—you’ll bring it round yourself?”
“Suh. No snoopin’ into the parcel then. But if you go to Manitou to-night, how can you have that fiddler?”
“He comes at nine o’clock. I’ll go to Manitou later. Everything in its own time.”
He was about to leave the shop when some one came bustling in. Berry was between Ingolby and the door, and for an instant he did not see who it was. Presently he heard an unctuous voice: “Ah, good day, good day, Mr. Berry. I want to have my hair cut, if you please,” it said.