John Spurrier withdrew his pistol and put it back in the drawer.
“I guess,” he said to himself, “he didn’t read my letters.”
CHAPTER X
Across a tree-shaded public square from the courthouse and “jail house” at Carnettsville stood a building that wore the dejected guise of uncomforted old age, and among the business signs nailed about its entrance was the shingle bearing the name of “Creed Faggott, Atty. at Law.”
The way to this oracle’s sanctum lay up a creaking stairway, and on a brilliant summer day not long after Spurrier had entertained his blind guest it was climbed by that guest in person, led by the impish boy whose young mouth was stained with chewing-tobacco.
This precocious child opened the door and led his charge in and, from a deal table, Creed Faggott removed his broganned feet and turned sly eyes upon the visitors, out of a cadaverous and furtive face.
“You don’t let no grass grow under your feet, do you, Joe?” inquired the lawyer shortly. “When the day rolls round, you show up without default or miscarriage.” He paused as the boy led the blind man to a chair and then facetiously capped his interrogation. “I reckon I don’t err in surmisin’ that you’ve come to collect your pension?”
The blind man gazed vacantly ahead. “Who, me?” he inquired with half-witted dullness.