"I mus' go home," articulated Burrill, drawing forth and consulting a showy gold repeater. "Folks's sick er home; mus' be good; take er nother drink, boys?"
"Folks sick, eh?" queried Rooney, winking behind his hand at the others, "wife, I 'spose?"
"Yes, wife I 'spose; wife 'n' brother-in-law, both sick; take er nother—"
"All right, old pard; but don't let a little sickness call you off so early; just let Heath take care of them; you're fond of Heath, too."
"Curse Heath!" roared out John Burrill; "what do you mean, I say, Roo-Roo-ney?"
"Burrill," said Bob Giles, setting down his glass and speaking in a low, confidential tone; "what's this power you have over Heath? Don't you know he's afraid of you?"
"He—he zer 'fraid er me! an' so he better be—him un—"
"And yet there are two or three of the fellows that say you are the one that's afraid."
"Me afraid! I—John Bur—ll, f-fraid. Boys, look, en I'll jus' tell you a s-secret. If I jus' opened my mouth, I could run that f-fellow out of the country; fact!" and he nodded sagaciously again and again.
"Then there ain't no truth in that story that you are the one that's afraid, and that you wouldn't dare go to Heath's office, not even if you wanted a doctor?"