“If you mean Mr. Thurston, he’s away.”
“Where’s Blaisdell, then?”
“He hit the trail, just a few minutes ago,” Tom responded.
“Then I suppose you have no objections if I sit in here a while?”
“Peter,” replied Tom solemnly, “you’ll be conferring a great honor on us.”
The bad man’s present mood was so amiable that Harry did not deem it desertion to go outside. Bad Pete had his cartridge belt restocked with sure-enough cartridges, and his revolver swung as jauntily in its holster as ever. Pete seemed to have no idea, however, of trying to terrify anyone with his hardware.
“You’ve been away?” suggested Tom, by way of making conversation, after an awkward silence had endured for nearly two minutes.
“Yep,” admitted the bad one. “Pardner, it seems like home to get back. Do you know, Reade, I’ve taken a big liking to you?”
“Peter,” protested Tom, “if you don’t look out you’ll make me the vainest cub on earth.”
“I mean it,” asserted Pete. “Pardner, I’ve a notion me and you are likely to become big friends.”