“I’d hate to,” he said quickly; “but I guess I’ll sell you ’most anything.”
Jim accepted the snub silently, drank his whiskey, paid for it, and went out.
Rocket looked after him. His eyes were unfriendly, but then they were generally unfriendly. As the doors swung to behind his customer he turned and looked in through the doorway behind him.
“Ma!” he cried, “Jim Thorpe’s been in. He’s had four drinks o’ whiskey, and took a bottle with him. He’s been thinkin’ a whole heap, too. Guess he’s goin’ on a sky-high drunk.”
And a shrewish voice called back to him in a tone of feminine spleen.
“Guess it’s that Marsham gal,” it said conclusively.
A woman’s instinct is a wonderful thing.
Meanwhile Jim was riding across the market-place. Half-way across he saw Smallbones. He hailed him, and the little man promptly hurried up to his horse’s side.
Jim knew that Smallbones disliked him. But just now he was only seeking ordinary information.