James Dalton––sole proprietor of the Dalton Realty Company––was standing at the door of his office, watching the actions of the oncoming crowd. The moment he saw Jim, however, he hurried inside.
The mob stopped at the door. Jim jumped to the ground.
“Come on in, Phil! Stay there, boys––just for a minute or two. There are drinks for the crowd at the end of this trip.”
By this time, Dalton was sitting behind his desk, his thumb in the armhole of his vest, nervously chewing at the end of an unlighted cigar.
“I bought the Brantlock Ranch from you the other day, Rattler.”
“That’s right,––go to it!” ventured Dalton as a try-out. “I kind of half expected something like this.”
“Are you going to deny it?”
“If you mean, am I going to deny that I gave a gink, 254 half dippy with booze, an Agreement for Sale in temporary exchange for a bunch of horses that he couldn’t look after and was liable to have pinched on him; if you mean am I going to deny that I did it to save him losin’ what he couldn’t keep an eye on himself,––then I ain’t.”
Dalton leaned back, still pale from excitement but not at all unsatisfied with his vocal delivery.
Jim looked over to Phil in sheer astonishment at the man’s audacity. Phil smiled in return.