Phil muttered a few inarticulate words of thanks and tried to rise. The lanky man helped him up, led him over to a bench, set him down and then sat down beside him.
“Sorry I didn’t interfere sooner. Might have saved you that rough handling,” said the stranger. “But to tell you the truth, I thought you were going to eat Rob Roy McGregor up. Guess you could, too, for you handle your fists better than any man I have ever seen;––but you’re just as weak as a half-drowned kitten. What’s the matter; been boozing?”
“No!” replied Phil. “I seldom drink.”
“Lucky you!” put in the big fellow. “Sick then?”
“Yes!––I––I’m just recovering from a severe illness,” answered Phil, for want of a better excuse.
“Just come into town?”
“I came in off the noon train.”
“Any friends?”
“No!”
“Say!––you don’t mind me cross-examining you this way, old man? I––I kind of like your looks.”