“Whereabouts was he killed?” continued Wilkins.
“Right out yonder in the street in front of this here shop,” stated the old man, with the air of one desiring to turn the conversation. “Razor hurt you much?”
“The razor’s all right,” said Wilkins snappily. “What I want to know are the facts about the killing of this last man. Who killed him?”
The cobbler let the edge of the razor linger right over the Adam’s apple of the stranger for a moment.
“I done so,” he said gently.
There was where the conversation seemed to begin to languish.
§ 4 Why the Major Didn’t Suit
On a voyage of one of the Cunard liners from New York to Liverpool a Major H. Reynolds of London was registered on the passenger list. The purser, running over the names, assigned to the same stateroom as fellow travelers, this Major Reynolds and a husky stockman from the Panhandle of Texas.
A little later the cattleman, ignoring the purser, hunted up the skipper.
“Look here, cap,” he demanded, “what kind of a joker is this here head clerk of yours? I can’t travel in the same stateroom with that there Major Reynolds. I can’t and I won’t! So far as that goes, neither one of us likes the idea.”