liminaries, or stick the knife into it at one bold stroke.
Ross did not offer any encouragement. The old sinner did the best he could to carry off a pretense of oblivious indifference, holding his newspaper before his whiskers as if absorbed in it entirely, flicking the top of it now and then with pettish little movement to scare away the flies.
"I've been putting this visit off a good while, Doctor—longer than I should have done," Hall began.
There he seemed to run out of words. He stopped, fingering his hat-brim nervously, looking at Old Doc Ross's averted face and three-quarters presented body, as if for help to go ahead.
Old Doc Ross flipped his paper; read on a little way; turned the page with hateful, vindictive suddenness, rustling it more than necessary, jerking it to stretch out the fold.
"You might 'a' put it off a little longer," he growled.
Hall was encouraged by the speech, ungracious as it was. He grinned, beginning to feel easier, to get himself headed right.
"I might have, like any deadbeat that's dodging his debts," he admitted. "I didn't know until a few days ago, Dr. Ross, that I was under obligation to you for your timely interference the night I butted my fool head into other people's troubles and came pretty near getting it shot off for my pains. I've put off coming to you and thanking you for your friendly hand longer than a strictly honest man ought to have put it off. But I guess I'm not a strictly honest man."
"Who in the hell is?" said Old Doc Ross.
He threw his paper down with the question, turning to
