“I can’t go back to him,” Sheedy said sullenly.
“Why not?” laughed Treplin. “He’s your friend, isn’t he? He let you keep the money you’d stolen, and all that.”
“Keep——!” growled Sheedy. “He’s got that himself. Made me make him a present of it, or—or he’d turn me over for a little trouble I had down in Duluth.”
Toppy stiffened and looked at him carefully.
“Telling the truth, Bill?”
“Ask him,” replied Sheedy. “He don’t make no bones about it; he gets something on you and then he grafts on you till you’re dry.”
Toppy stood silent while he assimulated this information. His scrutiny of Sheedy told him that the man was telling the truth. He felt grateful to Sheedy; through him he had got a new light on Reivers’ character, light which he knew he could use later on.
“Through making an ass of yourself here, Bill?” he asked briskly. Bill’s answer was to hang his head in a way that showed how thoroughly all the fight was taken out of him.
“All right, then; grab a wheelbarrow and get into the pit. Keep your end up with the other men and there’ll be no hard feelings. Try to play any of your tricks, and it’s good night for you. Now get to it, or get out.”
Sheedy’s rush for a wheelbarrow showed how relieved he was. He had been standing between the devil and the deep sea—between Reivers with his awful displeasure and Toppy with his awful punch; and he was eager to find a haven.