Lonesome jerked upright and stared open-mouthed at Hashknife.
“Jane?” he croaked. “What—who——”
Lonesome Lee spluttered over his own words, his hand trembled wildly as he tried to grasp Hashknife.
“Set down!” snapped Hashknife. “She ain’t far from here, but I’m danged ’f she’s goin’ to see you in the shape you are now, old timer. She thinks you’re a dandy old dad, instead of a broken old wreck. She thinks you own the 88. You’re a —— of a nice specimen for a young lady to pick out for a dad, ain’tcha?”
Lonesome bowed his sore old head on his hands and wept, while he swore feelingly at himself.
“You ought t’ have a gizzard,” said Hashknife, “and then you could eat with the chickens.”
“I betcha,” sobbed Lonesome. “I got it all comin’ to me, young feller. Don’t talk soft on my account.”
“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll try and say somethin’ mean to yuh. Can’t remember givin’ Easton a bill of sale, eh?”
“No.”
Sleepy got up, and going over to a rear window, peered out, then drew back quickly.