"Promised Mose, eh?" broke in the deputy marshal.
"Yes—if you want to know—I did promise Mose! You can't touch me for that!"
"Why, that's skinnin' alive, that is—jest for that alone," said Hazzard, with portentous gravity, "to say nothin' of scootin' over here to give warnin', and bringin' that bread there in your pocket, and so on. Why, it'll puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer to find punishments bad enough for you."
Job looked him searchingly in the eye for a full minute, then held up the fettered hand again.
"Say, unlock this, will you?" he said, unabashed. "I knew you was foolin' all the time," he added, as the other produced the key from his pocket and turned the lock. "I could tell it right from the start."
"Me? me foolin'?" asked Hazzard, with simulated surprise. "Why, you're crazy, boy!"
"No, I spotted it right off," Job replied, eager to put into words the idea that had suddenly come to him. "Why, anybody could tell that. A sure-enough dead shot like you wouldn't fire ten shots at a man and not hit him once, if he wasn't foolin'. It was as plain as the nose on your face—you didn't really want to catch poor Mose. That's what made me take a shine to you, right off."
Norman Hazzard blew more smoke through his pipe, and grinned to himself, and even gave an abrupt little laugh aloud, shifting on the instant to an air of grave imperturbability.
"You mustn't talk like that—that is, outside," he said. "It might give folks wrong notions. Besides, I tell you you're mistaken. I never fired more to kill in all my life. But of course—the old man here—p'r'aps that does make it a little different."
He looked down as he spoke to where old Asa lay, under the overcoat, and Job felt sure that there was a change on his face—a change toward kindliness.