“Which way did Sid go?” he asked the man, suddenly.
The negro's eyelashes flickered hesitatingly, and he avoided the white man's stare.
“I dunno, boss, I hain't seed 'im,” the man said. “He was heer dis mawnin', but I don't know whar he is now.”
“You are a liar, you black imp!” Hoag growled. “I saw 'im right here a minute ago.”
The negro made no response; he shrugged his shoulders doggedly, and his bead-like eyes were full of cautious concern as he led the horse to a stall.
Hoag stared after him, a sullen, thwarted expression on his face. “Don't take the saddle off,” he yelled. “I'm goin' back right away.” And with that he suddenly turned into the little office on the right, finding Trawley at his desk, a queer look, half of fear, half of sheepishness, in his shifting eyes. Hoag was now positive that the man was trying to avoid him, and a fierce demand for explanation was on his tongue, but he managed to restrain himself. Indeed, he felt that this was a case that required diplomatic handling, for Trawley had a temper, and at present had the look of a man driven into a corner.
“Hello, Sid,” Hoag said. “How goes it?”
“Oh, so so,” Trawley answered, awkwardly. “How's things out your way?”
“Oh, about as common.” Hoag was wondering over Trawley's sallow complexion, once so ruddy, and the nervousness of a frame which surely had lost weight and poise. The two did not shake hands. Hoag idly tapped the green cloth of the desk, beating little ridges of dust into view, and fixed his purposeful eyes on the dingy, small-paned window which was hung over with cobwebs.
“You hain't answered at roll-call lately,” he suddenly plunged.