“Oh!”
Harp’s nose twitched slightly and he sat down against the wall, ignoring the three vacant chairs. From his pocket he took a jew’s-harp, fitting it carefully between his teeth. Brick squinted at him thoughtfully, shaking his head.
“Don’t,” said Brick pleadingly. “My , ain’t there enough misery in the world without you addin’ to it, Harp?”
Harp removed the offending instrument and dangled it across his knee, clutched in a bony hand. He nodded understandingly, his serious eyes considering the troubled sheriff. It was not often that Harp would quit playing until he was ready. He was not musical, but seemed to derive much enjoyment from his own efforts.
“Aw right, Brick—I won’t regale yuh with music now. Sad music cheers me up, don’tcha know it? Sometimes, I wonder—” Harp rubbed the palm of his hand on the tightly drawn knee—“I wonder why paw didn’t educate me for the undertakin’ business. Man, I’d ’a’ sure been a dinger. I jist love to hear them singin’ ‘Rock of Ages,’ and by golly, I—”
Brick reached for his gun and Harp threw up both hands.
“You danged pall-bearer!” snorted Brick. “You keep up that kind of talk and there’ll be singin’—but you won’t hear it.”
“That’s right—jump onto me.” Harp grew indignant. “You big bully! I s’pose you’d strike me, wouldn’t yuh? Huh! It’s brutes like you that makes this world hard for us frail critters. I do everythin’ I can for yuh, and this is the treatment I get.”
Brick slumped down in his chair and began rolling a cigaret, as someone came clumping along the wooden sidewalk up to the office door. Then a head, surmounted by an ornate sombrero, was shoved inside from an angle that would indicate the man to be of abnormal height. The face beneath the sombrero was both broad and long, serious, except for the wide brown eyes. Brick glanced up at him, but showed no recognition. Harp squinted at the door, looked back at Brick and slapped himself on the knee.