“Sure you did! It might have been a serious accident. It isn’t often you make a forget like that, old man.”
“Oh, pshaw!––what’s the odds anyway? Everything was all right.”
“Was––yes! But it might have been all day with the new man.”
“No chance! I had that cinched. Anyway, he had no right dawdling at the window as long as he did.”
“Here, you two scrapping schoolboys––forget it!” interposed Langford. “I fancy Phil knows how to look after himself without either of you.”
On the instructions of Pederstone, the four men carried the trussed Hanson into a nearby stable, where they made him fast with fresh ropes to some heavy stanchions.
When all was secure, Hanson was left to regain his normal, Pederstone turning the key in the lock for further security.
“Guess that’s all this time, Ped,” said Brenchfield.
“All through––thanks, Graham!” returned Pederstone, and Brenchfield rode off in deep thought. As a blacksmith, the Mayor felt that Phil was easy and safe for him, although he did not like the intimacy that seemed to have sprung up so soon between Phil and Jim Langford, 82 for Langford was a strange composite, capable of anything or nothing; clever; altogether an unknown quantity, but one well worth the watching closely.
“Do you want Phil to-day now this has happened?” asked Jim of Royce Pederstone.