“And you didn’t happen to know any o’ that gang, did ye?” continued Bill, with infinite protraction.
“Yes. Knew ’em all. There was French Pete, Cherokee Bob, Kanaka Joe, One-eyed Stillson, Softy Brown, Spanish Jack, and two or three Greasers.”
“And ye didn’t know a man by the name of Charley Byng?”
“’YE DIDN’T KNOW A MAN BY THE NAME OF CHARLEY BYNG?’”
“No,” returned the Superintendent, with a slight suggestion of weariness and a distraught glance towards the door.
“A dark, stylish chap, with shifty black eyes and a curled up merstache?” continued Bill, with dry, colourless persistence.
“No. Look here, Bill, I’m in a little bit of a hurry—but I suppose you must have your little joke before we part. Now, what is your little game?”
“Wot you mean?” demanded Bill, with sudden brusqueness.
“Mean? Well, old man, you know as well as I do. You’re giving me the very description of Ramon Martinez himself, ha! ha! No—Bill! you didn’t play me this time. You’re mighty spry and clever, but you didn’t catch on just then.”