“If I had,” Grant continued—“well, I won’t say what might have happened.”
Still the boy in the bed remained silent.
“You know he threatened to shoot old Rouser,” Rod pursued, “and there are some persons who might feel that he simply got a dose of his own medicine. Don’t you say so?”
“I’m sick,” persisted Spotty in a muffled tone. “I ain’t goin’ to talk.”
“I just thought I’d let you know about it, for I reckoned you’d be interested. Oh, here’s one of the neckties I gave you hanging on a hook. Do you know, I lost my red silk handkerchief. You didn’t borrow it, did you, Spotty?”
“Borrer it!” growled Davis. “You know I didn’t. What are you talkin’ about?”
“Oh, I didn’t know, seeing as we’re friends, but you took it for a joke, or something like that.”
“Well, I didn’t, and now I won’t talk no more if you set there and chin for a week.”
Nor could Rod get another word out of Spotty, and he was finally compelled to depart in some disappointment, although more than half satisfied that his suspicions concerning the fellow were well grounded.