“No,” said Byram, with a scowl; “but I ain’t with you, neither!”
“Don’t git riled,” said the warden. “I’m that friendly with folks I don’t wanter rile nobody. Look here, friend, you an’ me is ’ficials, ain’t we?”
“I’m road-master of Foxville,” said Byram, aggressively.
“Well, then, let’s set down onto this bunch o’ shingles an’ talk it over ’ficially,” suggested the warden, suavely.
“All right,” said Byram, pocketing his hammer; “if you’re out to ketch Dan McCloud I don’t care. He’s a low-down, shifty cuss, who won’t pay his road-tax, an’ I say it if he is my cousin, an’ no shame to me, neither.”
The warden nodded and winked.
“If you he’p me ketch Dan McCloud with them birds in his ice-box, I’ll he’p you git your road-tax outen him,” he proposed. “An’ you git half the reward, too.”
“I ain’t no spy,” retorted Byram, “an’ I don’t want no reward outen nobody.”
“But you’re a ’ficial, same as me,” persisted the warden. “Set down onto them shingles, friend, an’ talk it over.”
Byram sat down, fingering the head of his hammer; the warden, a fat, shiny man, with tiny, greenish eyes and an unshaven jaw, took a seat beside him and began twisting a greasy black mustache.