“You,” said he, “are a friend of Mr. Campe’s. Good! I am but a servant. Good! It is not my place to say what you must not do. Is it not so?”
“I think that statement would stand in most instances,” replied Bat.
“I have the excuse,” said Kretz. “Herr Campe is now like a man who is sick. He can’t help himself. You have seen that. And so his people must be his eyes and his ears. They must also,” and here the square-cut face tightened more than ever, “be his tongue. They must speak when he cannot.”
“I see,” said Bat. “And so you accordingly seized upon this occasion to lift up your voice in his behalf.”
“You are a stranger here,” said the German, who did not seem to listen to what Bat said, much less understand it. “You do not know some things which are known to me.”
Bat blinked solemnly.
“It seems to me I’ve heard that, or something like it, before,” said he. “But don’t take so much credit for your exclusive information. You might not have it as safely cornered as you think.”
“The tramps——” began Kretz, but the big man stopped him impatiently.
“Tramps grandmothers!” said he bluntly. “Don’t go on with that kind of thing. I’m not an infant in arms to be fed with a bottle. If you have no real out-in-the-open talk on this subject, keep quiet about it. I passed the point where the tramps were long ago.”
Kretz stood, with frowning brows, looking at the other. Then his right hand went up in a salute.