The wrinkles in the corner of Earle's eye came close together.
"Is that any of your affair?"
But the baggageman smiled ingratiatingly, like a man who wanted to be friends.
"Tell you why I ask," he explained. "I lost that dog on my old run with the Coast Line. Owners sued the road. Road came back on me—said I had no business accepting him without a crate. Had to hunt a new job——"
"Oh, come off!" interrupted Earle. "The Coast Line's a hundred miles east."
"Can't help it. That's the dog. Watch him. Commere—Commere, Dan. See? Knows me. Ever see the beat of that? I'm sorry, mister—but—if you don't mind—what's your name and address?"
Earle had turned, and was looking at the dog under the truck. Then without a word he gave his name. The baggageman wrote it hastily in a notebook. The bell began to ring. The baggageman started away running.
"That's what I call white, Mr. Earle!" he called as he swung aboard, waving his hand back at them like a man unaccountably happy and relieved.
Earle looked down. Tommy noticed that his mouth was grim.
"Come, son," he said.