There followed a long silence. The policeman remained in deep thought awhile.
“See here; look,” he said. “Yu’ tell me as near as yu’ can, what this big feller’s like.”
The old man looked at him absently a moment.
“Eh?” he said. “Why, he’s a big feller with a black beard. They calls him ‘George’ around th’ outfit. Th’ young feller ... they calls him ‘Scotty.’ I dunno what his other name is. All my dealin’s has bin mostly with th’ big feller—‘George.’ He does all th’ talkin’ ... an’ th’ young chap ... seems ter do as he tells him.”
The Sergeant nodded gravely. “That settles it,” he said sharply.
Pryce, who, all this time, had been an eager listener, now sputtered excitedly: “Why, why—that’s George Fisk an’ Scotty Robbins he’s a-meanin’. Must be. H—l! They’re all right. I know ’em both well. It ain’t likely as they’d come a-sneakin’ ’round a feller’s place while he was away an’ steal his outfit. I’m a-goin’ ter ride over ter th’ Wharnock outfit right now an’ see’f this old gink’s a-tellin’ th’ truth,” he ended, with a spiteful glance at the old man.
Ellis turned and regarded him with his peculiar, blank, aggressive stare.
“Well, I guess yu’ ain’t,” he drawled coldly. “That’s my end o’ this business. I know more about them same two fellers’n what yu’ do. I know this much, too. From information I’ve received, yu’ wouldn’t find ’em at th’ outfit just now, anyways.”
The other stared at him sullenly.
“That ther’ team an’ wagon’s mine, no matter whether them fellers is at home or abroad,” he began blusteringly. “An’ I guess I’ll take ’em back with me.”