The man whispered in his ear: “Abe Beekman is over in the back settin’ room at Blodgett’s, ’n’ he wants to see your man Fairchile right off.”
Milton had regained his composure. “So do I want to see him. Whair abaouts is he? I was to meet him here.”
“There ain’t been no sign of him here, this mornin’. Nobuddy ’n Tyre’s laid eyes on him, so far’s I kin fine aout.”
“Thet’s cur’ous,” said Milton reflectively. “He started to drive over early enough. We cum by train, expectin’ to fine him here. P’raps he’s seen Beekman by this time, on th’ quiet.”
“No, he ain’t!” The messenger’s tone was highly positive.
“Then mebbe I’d better go ’n’ see Beekman myself. Whair is Blodgett’s?”
The man led the way off the main street, to a big, clap-boarded, dingy white house, fronting nowhere in particular, and stopped at the gate.
“Ain’t you comin’ in?” Milton asked him.
“I dasen’t.”