He winked. “I guess you know, if anybody does,” he observed. “All right, you'll have good friends on your side. I ain't saying anything, of course, but I'm on, all right.”
He winked again. I walked back to the cashier's window. Taylor had, evidently, seen me talking with the bookkeeper, for he was standing by the little gate, waiting for me.
“Hello, Ros,” he said. “Glad to see you. Come in.”
George Taylor was a type of smart country boy grown to manhood in the country. His tone, like his manner, was sharp and quick and businesslike, but he spoke with the Down-East twang and used the Cape phrases and metaphors. He was younger than I, but he looked older, and, of late, it had seemed to me that he was growing more nervous. We shook hands.
“Glad to see you,” he said again. “I was hoping you'd drift in. I presumed likely you might. Sit down.”
I took the proffered chair. He looked at me with much the same curious interest that Small had shown.
“We've been hearing about you,” he said. “You've been getting yourself talked about.”
I mentally cussed Lute once more for his loquacity.
“I'll break the fellow's neck,” I declared, with emphasis.
He laughed. “Don't do that yet awhile,” he said. “The market is in bad enough shape as it is. If his neck was broke the whole of Wall Street would go to pot.”