“No, Syrian,” says he.
“Quite some of a looker, eh?” says I, tryin’ to sound him.
“Not so bad,” says Spotty, hunchin’ his shoulders.
“But—er—do I understand,” says Pinckney, “that there is—ah—some attachment between you and—er—the young lady?”
“Blamed if I know,” says Spotty. “Better ask her.”
Course, we couldn’t very well do that, and as Spotty don’t seem bubblin’ over with information he has to chop it off there. Pinckney, though, is more or less int’rested in the situation. He wonders if he’s done just right, handin’ over all that money to Spotty in a place like that.
“It wa’n’t what you’d call a shrewd move,” says I. “Seems to me I’d bought his ticket, anyway.”
“Yes; but I wanted to get it off my mind, you know,” says he. “Odd, though, his being there. I wonder what sort of persons those Syrians are!”
“You never can tell,” says I.
The more Pinckney thinks of it, the more uneasy he gets, and when four o’clock comes next day, with no Spotty showin’ up, he begins to have furrows in his brow. “If he’s been done away with, it’s my fault,” says Pinckney.