“River be blowed—it's the niggers. Stepped out of the cane grass, not a dozen feet away, and whopped at me. It was a Snider, and he shot from the hip. Now what I want to know is where'd he get that Snider?—Oh, I beg pardon. Glad to know you, Mr. Arkwright.”
“Mr. Brown is my assistant,” explained Mr. Harriwell. “And now let's have that drink.”
“But where'd he get that Snider?” Mr. Brown insisted. “I always objected to keeping those guns on the premises.”
“They're still there,” Mr. Harriwell said, with a show of heat.
Mr. Brown smiled incredulously.
“Come along and see,” said the manager.
Bertie joined the procession into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointed triumphantly at a big packing case in a dusty corner.
“Well, then where did the beggar get that Snider?” harped Mr. Brown.
But just then McTavish lifted the packing case. The manager started, then tore off the lid. The case was empty. They gazed at one another in horrified silence. Harriwell drooped wearily.
Then McVeigh cursed.