"Oh, yes—out the Upper River—fell off a train, those blocks did."
Macrado grinned, thoughtfully. "See you salved a still house!"
"Yes—nice lot of heavy copper," Frest admitted. "I come down not tying a line. Anything new along?"
"Why, yes. There's something funny about one of those old river grafters, fellow name of White Collar Dan. Know him?"
"I don't remember. Who is he?"
"He rubs the banks. Any kind of graft, but he sells phony a lot, and he's off the river, too—Chi, an' N'York an' Boston. Down East, and helling all around. He come out of the Ohio in a nice gasolene cruiser, dull painted like an old shantyboater would have it, so's you couldn't see it to 'ell an' gone. Well, next anybody knowed, he turned up on the long, narrow sandbar above Slough Neck. You know, in the Reach there. He was shot through and through the right side, broke the fourth rib, coming and going both. He was crazy, and Whisky Williams found him. He took him to Hickman Hospital, and there he is. Getting well. Course, somebody got him for his boat. Who do you think it was?"
"Why, I—I couldn't know," Frest replied, his face hot with wonder.
