He disappeared. Glen knew if he had fired the story at him straight away it would not have been believed at all. Bill also knew it as he dived into the bowels of the earth beneath his bar.
"He's worked me cleverly," he muttered. "He saw I was cut up rough when he came in, and he handled me well. It's a queer go, a very queer go, but I believe him. He's not given to lying, and in any case I can go and see for myself in a day or two. If he's put up a game on me, I'll—No, he'd never do it. He's too much of a man. And his face! It might be his sweetheart the way he looked."
Bill was rummaging about. Selecting two bottles he took them with him. As he went back through his storeroom, he collected some tinned milk, soup, and biscuits.
He packed them all carefully so that there would be no risk of breakage, then went back to the bar.
Two men had come in during his absence. One was "on the fence," and as usual they had selected a bottle of alleged whisky, and were helping themselves. Glen had refused to join them. He was called a sullen bounder.
"Get out of this," yelled Bill when he saw the rider on the fence. "You're one of the devils who caused all this mess."
"I'll pay for it—at least my share," answered the man.
"Then out with it," said Bill, putting his package down.
Glen eyed it greedily. He ought to have had it an hour ago and been well on his way back to the hut. Here was more delay. Would she be alive? Would she be alive? Was Jim with her? Yes, he'd wait. He was sure of it.
The man pulled out some greasy pound-notes and handed Bill a couple.