A panic struck the open-mouthed Centerville citizens and they bumped against each other in their fright. As the two boys were about to step from the room the man behind the desk made a feeble request.
“Some one o’ you git the marshal.”
“For what?” snapped Morey.
“Fo’ dis,” sounded by his side, and Amos, the bag in one hand, shoved forward the red bandanna containing his carefully preserved rock.
“De fus’ pusson crosses mah path gits dis on de haid. It’s a dornick.”
Without interruption Morey and the valiant Amos made their way to the livery barn. The proprietor, one of the panic-stricken hotel spectators, came running after them. With nervous energy he assisted Amos in hitching up Betty.
“What’s your bill?” asked Morey.
The man hesitated.
“I reckon you done owe me ’bout two bits.”