“Got a tip where I was, eh? Well, I know who gave it. Fellow from Plainville, who’d been hanging around the camp, disappeared for a couple of days, and then came back.”
“Groche—Peter Groche? Is he here now?”
“Was this morning. It was none of his business, and it’s none of yours, Parker—mixing up in my affairs this way.”
“But it is our business!”
Orkney’s jaw was thrust forward obstinately. “See here, Mr. Sam Parker, you’re going too far. You’re banking on a notion that on account of what you did for me at the pond I’ve got to come when you whistle. Get that out of your head! I told you I couldn’t very well fight you—you know why—but there’s a limit. You don’t own me!”
Sam had not thoroughly mastered the rôle of bearer of the olive branch. “Mighty glad I don’t own you! If I did, I’d get rid of you very quick!” he rapped out. “And if you want to fight—why, the slate’s clean; you don’t owe me anything.”
Orkney dropped a bundle he had been carrying under one arm. Sam, observing this readiness to clear for action, struggled between zest for the fray and duty, as he saw it.
“Listen, you—you chump! Show common sense, can’t you? Come home with us. We want you to have a square deal. We’ll back you up—so far as we can. Little Perrine swears by you—we’ll spread his story. And there’s another thing—maybe you don’t guess how awfully broken up your aunt is. She’s almost crazy. She’s done everything she could to trace you. She’s offered a reward——”
“What’s that? A reward?”
“Yes—hundred dollars for news of you.”