There was a buzz of talk. Voices were not raised—Lon made mental note of the circumstance. Hagle was moving uneasily about the group—“doin’ the flea on the griddle dance,” Lon called it. Then Zorn broke away from the others. Hagle was after him instantly. He said something, and Zorn turned upon him menacingly. Hagle cowered, and shrank back. Zorn moved on, and Hagle trotted at his heels.
It was a curious performance; and it interested Lon. He might be wildly off the track in his suspicions, but, somehow, his theory that Sam’s trouble and Zorn’s activities were related was growing stronger every minute. He saw Ed pause for a few words with other groups; reach the end of the line; turn and retrace his steps, Hagle still following him.
Lon sat down on the ground. He clasped his arms about his knees, and stared industriously at the batter. His ears, though, were devoted to what might be doing just behind him, where Zorn and Hagle were about to pass his station. They came along, Zorn at his easy pace and Jack shuffling closer. He was speaking eagerly, pleadingly, though Lon could not catch the words.
Again Zorn whipped about.
“Oh, muzzle that whine, Jack!” Lon heard this clearly enough. “This thing’s working just right, I tell you.”
“I—I know, but——” Lon lost the rest of it, for Hagle’s voice was weak.
“Well, if you know, act as if you did know.”
Hagle’s voice rose shrilly. “I don’t like it, Ed; I don’t like it, I say!”
Zorn’s laugh was like the snap of a whip. “Go home, then! You don’t have to be here.”
“But—but I——”