“Well,” drawled Ira, “you can do a turn fer him, mebbe; and that’ll be doin’ somethin’ fer me. I’m down off the farm up yonder—up by Dawson’s.”
“Oh, you mean you work for Mr. Nelson?”
“By turns, when I’m in the country. The kid happen to be home?”
“No, sir, he’s not,” said Mr. Martin curtly, “but I think I’ve heard of you. What is your business here?”
“Well, I never was in no business exactly, as the feller says,” Ira drawled out. “Kid’s gone ter the meetin’, huh?”
“I believe he has,” said Mr. Martin briskly. “Did Mr. Nelson send you here? If there is anything you have to say to my son I think it would be better for you to say it to me.”
“That’s as might be,” said Ira easily. “Would yer want that I should talk to yer here?”
Mr. Martin stepped aside to let the caller pass within. Ira wiped his feet but paid no other tribute, nor, indeed, paid the slightest heed to the rather sumptuous surroundings in which he found himself. He followed the lord of the establishment into the library and seated himself in one of the big leather chairs. Mr. Martin did not trouble himself to present Ira when his wife and daughter (fearful of some newly disclosed sequel to Westy’s escapade) stole into the room and unobtrusively seated themselves in a corner.
“Well, sir, what is it?” said Mr. Martin authoritatively.
“Well,” drawled Ira, “it’s ’bout yer son shootin’ a deer.”