“Ord’narily it is, Larry; but when yuh pick the right person, it’s a favour to the rest of the world How’s yore—how’s Mr. Prentice to-day?”
“Drunk.”
“Yea-a-ah? Gosh, that’s somethin’ new.”
“I never seen him drunk before.”
“Huh!” Breezy masticated rapidly. He knew that Prentice had not been drunk for a long time, and he wondered why the cashier of the Lobo Wells Bank had fallen off the water wagon.
A man stepped off a horse at the little hitchrack in front of the office and came to the doorway. It was Len Ayres. Little Larry’s eyes were as big as quarters.
“Hyah, Len,” said Breezy pleasantly. “Whatcha know?”
“Nothin’ much, Breezy.”
Len came in, his spur chains jingling, looked sharply at the boy, and then at Breezy. It was the first time he had seen his son in over five years.
“Don’tcha recognise this young feller, Len?” asked Breezy.