Pickle stepped in front of the door, giving Mr. Barker a questioning glance.
“Let them go,” said the man; and Rod passed out, with Lander, grinning, at his heels.
CHAPTER XXVII.
SPOTTY REFUSES TO TALK.
As they reached the street Lander broke into a hoarse, triumphant chuckle of satisfaction.
“They didn’t bluff us none, did they, Roddy, old chap?” he said. “You sure did poke it to old man Barker and his measly cub. It done me good to see you stand up to ’em that fashion. But say, what sort of a dirty rinktum has Berlin Barker been tryin’ to put up on you now? He’s the limit, that snake-in-the-grass. ’Twouldn’t surprise me if he shot his own dog so’s to lay it onto you.”
“No, Bunk, I hardly think he did that.”
“Well, you don’t take no stock in that handkerchief gag, do ye? He never found your handkerchief the way he claims he did.”
“I don’t know whether he did or not,” confessed Rod. “Not that I believe him any too good to try to throw the blame of this thing onto me by a trick of that sort, but I can’t quite come to think that Springer or Piper would back him up.”