“Well, I'll be danged!” Bill Saltman ejaculated in honest surprise. “If it ain't Smoke!”
“What are you doing out this time of night?” Smoke inquired. “Strolling?”
Before Bill Saltman could make reply, two running men joined the group. These were followed by several more, while the crunch of feet on the snow heralded the imminent arrival of many others.
“Who are your friends?” Smoke asked. “Where's the stampede?”
Saltman, lighting his pipe, which was impossible for him to enjoy with lungs panting from the run, did not reply. The ruse of the match was too obviously for the purpose of seeing the sled to be misunderstood, and Smoke noted every pair of eyes focus on the coil of cable and the crowbar. Then the match went out.
“Just heard a rumor, that's all, just a rumor,” Saltman mumbled with ponderous secretiveness.
“You might let Shorty and me in on it,” Smoke urged.
Somebody snickered sarcastically in the background.
“Where are YOU bound?” Saltman demanded.
“And who are you?” Smoke countered. “Committee of safety?”