“Well, then, you killed him,” the man said; “’twasn’t no shot of ours. How’d that man come by his death, huh?”
“He was thrown off a cliff,” Harry said.
“Well, we’ll find out who threw him off,” the man said.
Harry said, “Oh, that’s easy; fifteen cents and the war tax, and you’ll know the whole story. Climb over in back Alf, and let this gentleman sit here.”
Just then one of the other men came dragging poor Mr. Ragtime Sandbanks after him. He looked awful silly—I mean the man. The poor old dummy was all soaked and his legs and arms flopped this way and that. Harry looked, but didn’t seem especially interested.
“So that’s it, is it?” the big man said.
“That’s it,” Harry said.
“A dummy!” the man just what-do-you-call-it—you know—ejaculated.
“Oh, don’t call yourself names,” Harry said.
Jimmetty, you should have seen that man.