“Yore honest opinion, I mean.”
“My honest opinion?”
“Yeah. Yuh see we all have two opinions on things like that—the one we express and the one we hide.”
“I—I think I know what you mean, Mr. Hartley.”
“Fine. I wish you’d leave the mister off my name. All my friends call me Hashknife. When anybody says ‘Mr. Hartley’ I look around to see who they’re speakin’ to. Now, yuh jist go ahead and tell me about Joe Rich.”
Peggy looked earnestly at Hashknife.
“Why should I? Why do you wish to know about Joe Rich—my opinion of him? Who are you, anyway?”
Hashknife studied his boot-toes for several moments, but finally looked up at her with a grin in his eyes.
“It’s kinda queer,” he admitted, “but I’m one of them funny folks who always asks questions. All my life I’ve asked a lot of questions, Miss Wheeler. Sometimes I find out things. I’m like the feller who said he made up his mind to kiss every pretty woman he met. Somebody said—
“‘I’ll bet you got whipped a lot of times,’ and he said—