You towed me along out into this cursed West of yours, making me think
all the time that when you got ready to call on your father he'd come
through like a flash. And you knew that he had turned you out for
good. Now I am through with you. Get that? I mean it! And if I have
seven dollars I guess I'll need it myself before I get out of this
pickle you've got me into!"
Conniston stared at him incredulously. "Come, now, Roger. You don't
mean--"
"But I do, Mr. William Conniston, fraud! I'm through with you."
Conniston got to his feet, his own face as white as Hapgood's.
"You mean what you are saying?"
"I most certainly and positively do!"
"And the wire I sent to dad--"
"You can pay for it if you want to! You don't get a cent out of me."
Conniston took one stride to him, putting a heavy hand upon Hapgood's
narrow shoulder.
"You infernal little shrimp!" he cried, hoarsely. "If we weren't
guests here I'd take a holy glee in slapping your face! By the Lord,
I've a mind to do it anyhow!"
Hapgood jerked back, his arm lifted to shelter his face. And
Conniston, with a short laugh, dropped his hand to his side. As he did
so he saw Miss Crawford was coming toward them through the yard from
the corner of the house. A middle-aged man, heavy and broad-shouldered
and white-haired, was with her. He turned to meet her.
"Mr.
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