“That’s exactly my fix,” Cassowary answered. “I was in a bad way when he picked me up: just about ready to jump off a high building and let it go at that. And I must say he does make things seem brighter. He mustn’t see us talking off key, as he’d say, but I’d like to ask you this: what’s he running away from? That’s what worries me. What’s he grabbing newspapers for all the time and slashing out ads and other queer stuff?”
“You’ve got me there,” Deering replied soberly. “We ran into some men the other night who he said were detectives looking for him, but it didn’t seem to worry him any.”
“There’s nothing new in that. We’ve struck a number of men who apparently were looking for somebody, and he greatly enjoys chaffing them. If he’s really a crook, he wouldn’t be exposing himself to arrest as he does.”
Hood was now returning from his investigations of the barn, and as he crossed the pasture was examining a bunch of the newspaper clippings with which his pockets were stuffed.
“You needn’t be afraid of getting into trouble with him,” Cassowary remarked admiringly. “He pulls off things you wouldn’t think could be done. He’s a marvel, that man!”
“Old Bill Fogarty’s been ripping into the country stores in these parts,” began Hood volubly; “found his mark on the barn, all right. Amusing cuss, Fogarty. Sawed himself out of most of the jails between here and Bangor. We’ll probably meet up with him somewhere. It’s about time to go back for that snooze, boys. To the road again!”
He strode off singing, in a very good tenor voice, snatches from Italian operas, and his pace was so rapid that his companions were hard pressed to keep up with him.