"I suppose you're taking care of my gun for me, too," said Brower; but his irony was weak. He was evidently off the boil.
"Your gun?" I echoed. "Have you lost your gun?"
He passed his hand across his eyes. His super-excitement had passed, leaving him weak and nervous. Now was the time for my counter-attack.
"Here's your gun," said I, "didn't want to collect any lead while you were excited, and I've got your dope," I repeated, "in a safe place." I added, "and you'll not see any of it again until you answer me a few questions, and answer them straight."
"If you think you can roll me for blackmail," he came back with some decision, "you're left a mile."
"I don't want a cent; but I do want a talk."
"Shoot," said he.
"How often do you have to have this dope—for the best results; and how much of it at a shot?"
He stared at me for a moment, then laughed.
"What's it to yuh?" he repeated his formula.