“Yes, I be,” declared Arad savagely; “on’y the papers ain’t made aout.”
“I don’t really see, then, how you can bring it about until you are appointed,” said Mr. Weeks slowly.
“I jest kin!” asserted Arad, with confidence. “I gotter warrant here for him.”
“Whew!” The astute Weeks looked at the old sinner admiringly. “Well, well! you are a smart one. What’s the charge?”
“Robbing me,” responded the old man. “The day he run away he took ’most fifty dollars outer a—a beury droor. Dretful bad boy is that Brandon.”
“Yes, I should think so. Well, with that warrant I should think you had him pretty straight.”
“D’ye think I kin find him all right?” asked Arad anxiously.
“If you can’t, I can,” responded Weeks. “I know where to put my hand on him.”
At that moment a door at the rear of the room (within a few feet of the table at which they were seated, in fact) opened, and a man entered. Weeks recognized him at once as Jim Leroyd; he had seen him before, although he could claim no speaking acquaintance with him.
Old Arad also saw and recognized the newcomer, and as the sailor passed along the room, he caught sight of the old farmer.