"What does this mean, you cub!" the sheriff demanded furiously.
"It means that I want to talk to Leslie Jones’ father before he sees Leslie," announced Ross boldly, "so I came with you. There was nothing to prevent my coming."
A hand fell on the sheriff’s shoulder. Sandy McKenzie stood at Ross’s elbow. Sandy’s face wore a curiously baffled expression, but he nodded to Ross in much his usual nonchalant manner.
"Hello, Doc, you here? Didn’t expect to see you. How’d you leave Leslie Jones?"
There was an emphasis on the last name which Ross did not notice. Neither did he notice the shrewd observation in the questioner’s eyes.
"I left him busy," the boy returned glibly, "and so did the sheriff!"
Once more the blood rushed into the sheriff’s face, and in unselected language he had begun to tell Ross what he thought of him, when Sandy succeeded in drawing him aside and leading him into the barroom, followed by Waymart and a group that the conversation had attracted.
After they had disappeared, Ross turned to the clerk. "Is Mr. Jones stopping here?" he asked confidently.
"Nope," responded the clerk, leaning an elbow on the ledger. "What was it you put over the sheriff?"
"Not here!" Ross exclaimed, not hearing the question. "Did you understand the name? I want to see Mr. Jones." In his anxiety he raised his voice.