"By the way," said the little man, "isn't there a place called
Bigbee's, near here?"
"Comin' to it pretty soon. They's some gals livin' there now, so ye won't care to stop."
"What sort of girls are they?"
"Sort o' queer."
"Yes?"
"Ye bet ye. Come from the city a while ago an' livin' by theyselves.
Someth'n' wrong 'bout them gals," added Bub reflectively.
"In what way?" asked the little man in a tone of interest.
"They ain't here fer nuth'n' special 'cept watchin' the folks at Hillcrest. Them's the folks I belongs to. For four bits a week. They's someth'n' queer 'bout them, too; but I guess all the folks is queer thet comes here from the city."
"Quite likely," agreed the little man, nodding. "Let me out at Bigbee's, please, and I'll look over those women and form my own opinion of them. They may perhaps be friends of mine."
"In thet case," asserted Bub, "I pity ye, stranger. F'r my part, I ain't got no use fer anything thet wears skirts—'cept one er two, mebbe," he added reflectively. "Most men I kin git 'long with fust-rate; but ef a man ever gits in trouble, er begins cussin' an' acts ugly, it's 'cause some gal's rubbed him crossways the grain er stuck a knife in him an' twisted the blade—so's ter speak."