Sam came back, whistling cheerfully and pulled a chair up to the table. He sat down, “That dog murders me,” he said “Jeeze! You never seen anything like it. He’s in with the kid and they’re talking away like a couple of professors. What they find to talk about, beats me.”
“Never mind about them,” I said, pushing the plate of fried ham over to him. “So long as they don’t fight, what does it matter? I admit I don’t find Whisky too easy to talk to. Maybe, it’s because he kind of embarrasses me.”
“He’s a smart guy, that dog,” Bogle said, spearing the ham with his fork. “He’s got a political mind.”
“You wouldn’t know this fellow Kelly?” Ansell asked. “The one who’s helping Shumway.”
“Kelly?” Bogle repeated. “There’s millions of Kelly’s. I know two or three of ’em, but unless I saw the guy, I couldn’t say.”
“Don’t worry about it, Doc,” I said, helping myself to more coffee. “I’ll go down to the Recorder as soon as I’ve finished. Maybe, I’ll get something.”
“Yeah,” Bogle broke in, “ain’t it time we found this Shumway guy? When we do get him, he’ll have spent all that jack.”
“We’re doing our best,” Ansell said. “You don’t seem exactly full of ideas, Sam.” He pushed his plate away and wandered over to an armchair. He sat down and began to read the newspaper.
Whisky wandered in, “Hey-ho,” he said, with a flick of his tail “What’s buzzin’, cousin?”
“Don’t,” I said, pushing back my chair and lighting a cigarette. “Try to speak pure English if you’re going to speak at all. I think Sam’s accent is affecting you.”