“Don’t you know him?” exclaimed Mr. Deometari. “He belongs to the Relief Committee!”
“Phew!” whistled the other, raising both his hands in the air, and letting them fall again.
“Don’t you know him?” Deometari went on, with increasing earnestness. “He’s the man that shot the otter.”
Again Mr. Deometari’s companion gave a long whistle of astonishment. “Jack Pruitt?” he asked.
“The identical man,” said Deometari. “And do you know who this provost-marshal here is—this Captain Johnson?”
“Oh, yes,” said the other; “he’s the chap that stole the last dust of meal we had been saving to make soup for poor Tom Henderson.”
“And what happened then?” inquired Mr. Deometari, as if trying to refresh his own memory instead of that of his companion. “Didn’t Jack Pruitt give him a whipping?”