“That’s me,” cried the mountain of flesh, in fierce accents, as if defying contradiction.
Matt felt the business would not be easy.
“I’ve taken the liberty of coming to you—on behalf of—”
“Not that tarnation Frenchman?” shrieked Mr. Coble.
Matt reddened uncomfortably.
“That’s the fifth man he’s sent me. When did you come out of prison?”
“I’ve been painting the jailer’s portrait,” Matt stammered, with burning cheeks. “And I used to know the poor little man years ago, and he says—”
“I can’t listen now. Does he think I’ve no business to attend to?”
“He didn’t send me here, he sent me to your house.”
“Ho, that’s a new dodge. But I reckon he told you the old things, eh?—that I’m a stony-hearted cuss, that I’d sneak the coppers off a corpse’s eyes or squeeze a cent till the eagle squeaked.”