“I ain’t gon to see no kid gon out to the Yellowstone without them gents knowin’ ’bout this here,” mused Ira. “I’m a-gon ter look inter this mess summat. I ain’t satisfied with the looks o’ things.”
For a few minutes longer he stood, his back against the house, smoking and considering. Then, delving into the abysmal depths of his trousers pocket he disinterred a formidable nickel watch which was innocent of chain or cord. He had exchanged a carved whale’s tooth for it in some oriental sea town and it was his pride and boast. If Ira himself had always been as regular as this miniature town clock no one would have complained.
“I got jes about enough time ter ketch the six-twenty from Dawson’s,” he said. “I’m gone ter hev a look at this here Bridgeboro.”
This was as far as he was willing to commit himself. He would go in the rôle of idle tourist. There remained only one thing to do and that was to saunter out to the kitchen porch and reach his outlandish felt hat down from the peg which had been intended for a milk pail. If he had been going to South Africa, he would have done no more than this. But he did pay Bridgeboro the tribute of banging his hat against a porch stanchion to knock the loose dust out of it. Then he sauntered up the road toward Dawson’s.
CHAPTER XXVII
ENTER THE CONTEMPTIBLE SCOUNDREL
At eight o’clock that evening, an evening destined to be memorable in the annals of local scouting, Ira Hasbrook stood upon the porch of the Martin home and, having pushed the electric button, knocked out the contents of his pipe against the rail preparatory to entering.
He wore khaki trousers which in some prehistoric era had been brown, a blue flannel shirt and an old strap from a horse harness by way of a belt. He was not in the least perturbed, but bore himself with an easy-going demeanor which had a certain quality that suggested that nothing less than an earthquake could ruffle it. He was not admitted to the house by the correct man servant and seemed quite content to wait on the porch until Mr. Martin (whom he purposed to honor with a call) should make known his pleasure touching the scene of their interview.
“You want to see me; what is it?” that gentleman demanded curtly.
“You Mr. Martin, huh? Westy’s father?”
“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”