“A very pretty story,” said Floyd, complacently. “Won’t I get somethin’ for tryin’ to save the kid’s life?”
“As like as not. I’ll suggest it to the old lady myself.”
“When do you want me to go up to the house?”
“Now. The lawyer’s coming at four o’clock, and I want you to confirm Mrs. T. in her belief in the boy’s death.”
“It’s dry talkin’, Abner,” said Floyd, significantly.
“Take a glass of sarsaparilla, then.”
“Sarsaparilla!” repeated Floyd, contemptuously. “That’s only fit for children.”
“Lemon soda, then.”
“What’s the matter with whisky?”
“Are you a fool? Do you think Mrs. T. will believe your story if you come to her smelling of whisky?”