“Oh, it's you; all right—all right!”
The sound in the room was louder now, and then Trawley, without coat or hat, his coarse shirt gaping at the neck, opened the door and came out.
“You got here quick, I'll swear,” the liveryman ejaculated. “Surely you wasn't in Atlanta like they said you was, or you couldn't 'a' got here as soon as this.”
“Soon as this! What do you mean? I am just from Atlanta.”
“Then they didn't telegraph you?”
“No; what do you mean? I hain't heard a word from here since I left.” Hoag caught his breath, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood, openmouthed.
“You don't say! Then, of course, you couldn't know about Henry's trouble?”
“No, I tell you I'm just back. What's wrong?”
“It happened about nine o'clock to-night,” Trawley explained. “In fact, the town has just quieted down. For a while I expected the whole place to go up in flames. It was in the hands of the craziest mob you ever saw—Nape Welborne's gang.”
“What about Henry? Was he hurt, or—”