After spitting many oaths, Mr. Pratt declared that he was all right and knew what he was talking about.
“You’ll have to back that up,” I told him. “Fifty men were looking at you when that thing happened. I have not been out of the sight of those men since. You say it was a large wallet.” I unbuttoned my coat and slung it open. “Will any gentleman present kindly search me?”
“He is going too far when he shoots off his mouth about a gent like you,” declared somebody in the crowd. “We all saw you. All you did was try to help the son of a gun out of his mess—and that’s all the thanks you get!”
“Mistakes are bound to occur. I demand that some gentleman make sure that I have no wallet on my person. My own money is in a roll in my trousers pocket.”
A solid-looking citizen searched me, uttering apologies. “There ain’t any wallet on this gent, and you’d better ask his pardon for remarks offered,” suggested the citizen.
But Pratt only raved the louder.
“I’d like to say a word just here,” called a voice. The stage-driver pushed to the front. “You all know me and you know I ain’t any liar. This gent, here, is a friend of mine and he wouldn’t do dirt to anybody. He’s a friend of our mayor, too.” He put his hand affectionately on my shoulder. “But as for that other cuss, there, in the piebald clothes, I heard him make threats not longer ago than this morning that he would get my friend, and get him good and plenty.”
“Maybe you think I arranged to have those seventeen dinners dumped over me so as to make the plot a good one, you pie-eyed horse-walloper, you,” squealed Pratt, beginning to “weave” in his fury like a caged bear.
“I wouldn’t wonder a mite,” replied the driver, coolly. “When I heard you threatening to get my friend you was mad enough to try on most anything.”
“He got my money, I tell you. I felt him at my pocket while I was trying to get my senses back. Blast you all for infernal fools, I’ve been robbed right before your eyes and you’re backing up the thief.”