“Let's see, I guess it was—naw, it was Monday, because it was the day before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud did.”
It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. “And so you haven't seen my friend since Monday?” he asked, insistently.
“That's what I said.”
“And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?”
“That's what I said.”
“When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?”
“You can search me,” was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing all knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions.
Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat. It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The telegram was still on the hat-stand.
“Any news?” asked the landlady, appearing from the rear.
“No. I was hoping you might have some.”