CHAPTER XXVII
It was an agitated little county official who sat in the office of the judge of probate of Blueberry County and whispered into a telephone.
"I tell you, Jim, there ain't nothin' I can do if the complainin' witness don't show up. No—no—I can't—I'm helpless. Can't you come down and talk it over?" glancing at the clock. "It's only nine-thirty; we got a half hour."
"No, I can't come. This thing looks like a fliv, and if it does, the less anybody knows about it, includin' J. H., the better." A grit came into his lowered voice. "And if—get out, Central!—any stories get around we'll know damned well where they come from."
"But, Jim, what can I do?"
"Stall, you poor simp! Stall and give us a chance to dig up our party!"
At ten o'clock Humphrey Bryant entered the court room, trying to keep the droop from his shoulders.
"Say, Hump, I made a mistake in th' time; Come back at eleven, will you?" the judge asked.
And at eleven the editor was there—and waited until twelve and the judge made excuses and went out and darted into the Commercial House and inquired frantically for Harris.
"He said," said Henry, coughing into his pallid cigar, "he said if you called that he couldn't keep his engagement this mornin'. He said you'd understand."
Ten minutes later Humphrey Bryant walked back to the Banner office. It required no effort, now, to keep the droop from his shoulders!
It was evening before Jim Harris returned to Pancake. He was bland and good-natured so far as a casual observer might have known, but rage seethed, in his breast. He entered Howe's room and flung off his vest irritably.
"Damned if things don't pinch out!" he grumbled. "I'd've sworn that kid would stay put."
"No word of him?"
"Not a whisper. He may be dead for all I know. I didn't dare raise a stink for fear—"
His gray eyes flickered with baffled rage.
Rowe paced the room.
"That's one hold on her that slipped," he said. "We've got to get busy, Harris. The old man won't wait all summer, and young John—"
He stopped shortly. "Say, you don't suppose—"
Harris looked up.
"Dah! Hell, no!—Huh?—" he seemed startled, but relaxed and shook his head again. "I guess not, Rowe. He's quick in the head, but I don't think—"
He did not say what he thought. His glowering look went out the window to the office of the Banner and rested there blackly. In the rooms above Humphrey Bryant was packing his bag. Tonight he could take up Helen's fight again!
It was after supper at the Commercial House. Harris and Rowe were on the porch smoking, conversing in casual tones, trying not to appear confidential when John Taylor came down the street. His face was drawn and pinched.
"Hello Taylor," said Harris as he came up the steps. Jim had never ceased to be genial with this particular enemy. "How's tricks? Understand your cut's about finished."
"Yes, two or three days more."
"You'll be pulling out, then?"
Taylor stopped beside him; there was something in his gaze, a direct, penetrating quality, which caused Harris' eyes to narrow ever so slightly when John left off scrutinizing him and looked hard at Rowe.
"I don't expect to leave right away," he said. "Fact is, I intend to stay right here until another matter is cleaned up—as one of the preliminary steps I want to turn some of your money back to you."
"My money?" Harris asked.
"Yes, this." Taylor took a bill and some coins from his pocket and counted deliberately. "A dollar and sixty-eight cents; that's right."
He held out his hand to Harris who made no move to accept it.
"What's the idea, Taylor? You don't owe me a nickel."
"I'm beginning to think that I owe you a great deal—you and Phil Rowe," Taylor replied. "This, though, is not on our account. This is the money turned back to you from young Kildare. I took it from him when he was leaving town last night, to escape charges of conspiracy and perjury—This will make fifty-one dollars and sixty-eight cents that you have saved on this little flier, Harris—Take it, you rat!"
His words bit savagely as he took that one quick step which brought him close to Harris. The man reached out, almost involuntarily, for the change. It clinked in his palm.
Taylor stood a moment, looking down upon them.
"Now," he said, "maybe we understand each other a little better. I said, Rowe, that I was going to fight you. This is the beginning!"
He turned and walked quickly away.
"Well I'll go to hell!" muttered Phil Rowe.
"And I'll keep you company," whispered Harris huskily.