"I don't know," he went on protestingly. "Don't hit me again."
But the chief had no such intention; it was merely to walk back and forth across the room.
"What kind of man was he—a tramp?"
Haney faltered and thoughtfully pulled his under-lip. The cunning brain behind the bleary eyes was working now.
"I wouldn't call him a tramp," he said evasively. "He had on collar an' cuffs an' good clothes, an' talked sort o' easy."
"Little, skinny man you said. What color was his hair?"
The chief turned in his tracks and regarded Haney with keen, inquiring eyes. The prisoner withstood the scrutiny bravely.
"Sort o' blackish, brownish hair."
"Black, you mean?"
"Well, yes—black."