Pratt halted, straining his ears towards the altercation.
"You pay up: that's what I say," Blevins went on. "You've had my car a week or more, and over-drive, that's what you do. And not a penny piece have you paid."
"But zat is all right," expostulated the foreigner. "Mr. Gradoff he pay at end of ze month. He say so; vell, you vait all right. You have--vat you call it?--a bike; it is ten mile, but vat is zat? You go quick."
"'BUT ZAT IS ALL RIGHT.'"
"And you think I'm going to ride twenty mile for a commutator. Not me. What do you want the car for, anyway? Driving in and out nigh every day, scorching along fit to bust up any machine. What's your game? Do 'ee take me for a fool? You're up to some hanky-panky while your master's away. Think I didn't know that all along? Nice goings on! A pretty tale the village 'll have to tell him when he gets back! Spending his money like I don't know what. Spending, says I; running up bills, that's what it is. You pay up, and you shall have a commutator. I don't need to ride no bikes to fetch it: I've got it on the spot; only I'll see your money first."
The men had begun to walk up the yard. Pratt slipped into the shop. Evidently the car would not be used to-day, he thought, if Blevins remained obdurate. Evidently, also, Blevins was suspicious of the doings at the Red House, though it was clear that he had no well-defined idea of what those doings were, or any knowledge of Mr. Pratt's whereabouts. He went past the shop, still bickering with the Italian. Pratt had a free field.
His former acquaintance, the youthful assistant, came forward to attend to him.
"Good-morning," said Pratt, genially. "It seems quite an age since I saw you. I've often thought of that pleasant little conversation we had. But I'm in rather a hurry to-day. I want some methylated spirit: that's what you call it, isn't it?--the stuff that burns with a blue flame. Rummy how often blue comes into business affairs, don't you think? Last time I was here I wanted blue tacks, I remember. By the way, I suppose your friend, the gardener at the Red House, hasn't bought any more tacks?"
"No friend o' mine," growled the youth.