“I’m going to do an errand for him,” he said.
“You can ask him yourself. So I’ve got a right to be here.”
But it appeared that it was Diving Denniver with whom the officer had business. “Are you Charles McDennison?” he asked.
“Yere, what’s the dope?” the wonder asked, with a kind of weariness in his voice.
Hervey was astonished, not to say shocked, that Diving Denniver acknowledged the name of Charles McDennison.
“Let’s look at your permit,” said the officer.
Mr. McDennison entered the tent, presently emerging with a paper.
“That’s no good here and you know it’s no good,” said the officer. “Wainboro! And a year old too. Why didn’t you come and get your permit when you got to town? You’ve been in this game long enough to know you’ve got to do that. All these concessions have permits, except those under carnival management.”
“Some towns—” began McDennison.
“Never mind about some towns. You know you’ve got to get a permit in this town. Why didn’t you do it?”