"Oh, they sure do hand it to a man if he makes the least break," Bat
sympathized. "Mac's one uh the best men they've got in the Force, an'
they know it, too. Darned if that don't sound queer t' me; what else
could he do? But Lessard's a overbearin' son-of-a-gun all round, and
he's always breakin' out in a new place. Say, you might as well come
over an' stay with me while you're round here. I don't reckon you'll
enjoy herdin' with these rough-necks."
Bat's offer was not one to be overlooked by a man in my circumstances,
so after supper found me sitting in his kitchen making gloomy forecasts
of the future, between cigarettes. Shortly before the moon-faced clock
nailed on the wall struck the hour of nine with a great internal
whirring, some one tapped lightly on the door. Bat himself answered the
knock. His body shut off sight of whoever stood outside. I could just
catch the murmur of a subdued voice. After a few seconds of listening
Bat nodded vigorously, and closed the door. He came back to his chair
grinning pleasantly, and handed me a little package. I tore it open and
found, wrapped tightly about three twenty-dollar gold pieces, an
unsigned note from MacRae. It ran:
"Get after Lessard and see if he won't send an escort with you to
Writing-Stone.
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