“Look here,” said Dick hotly, “you know where that poke is—in Corporal Rand’s possession. You had it yourself on two different occasions. Why didn’t you keep it?”
Burnnel advanced threateningly.
“Enough o’ that! Yuh know what I mean, a’ right. We want what was in that poke an’ we want it quick.”
“But see here,” protested Dick, “we haven’t anything. I tell you, we haven’t. We don’t even know what was in the poke in the first place.”
Burnnel and Emery exchanged glances. Then, indignantly, the little man addressed the other:
“There, what’d I tell yuh. It’s plain they ain’t got it. I was right. It’s Creel!”
The huge bulk of Burnnel stood like a statue. Since questioning Dick, he had not moved, except to turn his head in his partner’s direction. Now his chin was bent forward, resting upon his expansive, barrel-like chest. To all appearances, his partner’s assertion had given him food for thought, required deliberate and careful consideration. In a moment he raised his eyes again, glancing at Emery. With the fingers of one hand he scratched the stubble on his pocked, scarred face.
“How do yuh know that? You’re jus’ guessin’. I’d as soon think these boys had it as Creel. Fact is, it’s a hull lot more likely. How do we know that this here young tomcat didn’t empty the poke t’other night right after we left an’ afore Frischette comes along an’ grabs it?”
Emery darted a quick, insolent, sarcastic glance at his huge confederate.
“I don’t believe it. Creel’s the one what’s fooled us. Fooled us in the first place there at his cabin. It’s all your fault, too. Yuh never looked in that poke. An easy mark you are,” he declared scornfully, “lettin’ him put it over yuh like that.”