“Well,” said Mr. Camp, drawing on his not very fragrant pipe. “Can’t I buy gasoline if I like?”
“Don’t beat around the bush,” broke in Attorney Stockwell.
“Look a’ here, Stockwell,” exclaimed old “Stump.” “I never did have the best opinion o’ you. I don’t like to say right out I think you’re a shyster cause I ain’t lookin’ to start nothin’. An’ that’s more considerate than some bluffers I know.”
“Have you seen the machine?” put in the deputy again, anxious to avoid trouble.
“I don’t know much about the law,” drawled the mill owner, “but I got a hunch I don’t have to answer that less’n I want to.”
“Don’t lose time with him,” sneered the lawyer. “You have the authority. Search the place. I’ll help you.”
“So’ll I,” volunteered Mr. Camp. “Ef ye find any flyin’-machine on this place or round about, yer welcome to it. Mr. Deputy, you do your duty. An’ when you’re convinced, git.”
The lawyer and the deputy began rather unsystematically to look about the premises, starting first for the lumber piles below the mill.
“Better look in the mill afore it’s too dark,” suggested Mr. Camp, pointing to the sawing shed.
The lawyer sneered again.