I handed him a cigar and he explained further.
“If I ain’t here to clap a hand over his mouth to keep the rum out and the news in, he’ll get four slugs of language-loosener into him inside of four minutes after striking the first board-walk here and then it’s brakes off, all into a gallop and hell-bent up the rise for that ‘Bright Eyes’ stock.”
At a little distance the stylish Mr. Pratt paced his way to and fro on the porch, scowling.
“Please take a good look at that fellow,” said I.
“I’ll do the best I can without smoked glasses,” promised the stage-driver. “I’ve seen him before—and I never liked his style.”
“His name is Pratt,” I said loud enough to be heard by that gentleman. “He seems to hold some kind of a grudge against me and is following me.”
Mr. Pratt let loose a torrent of cuss words that were fully as highly colored as his rig-out. He wound up by saying, “And, by the gods! I’ll get you, and get you fine and plenty!”
“Will you remember that?” I asked the stage-driver.
I realized that I had pretty good control of the movements of Mr. Pratt. For where I did go there went Pratt also. Mr. Pratt was decidedly on his job. Personal hatred moved him and he felt responsible, I suppose, for the interests of the two who were frothing behind the bars of the calaboose in Royal City. He seemed to be guarding me as a morsel for a feast of revenge at which three proposed to sit down. He stuck to me so closely that my big idea became firm enough to handle. The ability to move Pratt, and to be near Pratt at all times by Pratt’s own wish, suggested my scheme to me.
When the noon hour was at hand I led the way back to the hotel, and, while I tidied myself for dinner, taking my turn at the mirror in the wash-room, I had an eye for the manoeuvers of Pratt, who was preening and pluming himself, whisking all the stains of outdoors from his clothing, settling his gorgeous tie, smoothing his waistcoat across his expansive front.