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I tried to borrow another horse up at Clancey's, and at Scotton's Drive, but they didn't know me, and they bounced me. So I borrowed a horse off Weigall's paddock, to make for here to you. I didn't mean to keep that horse. Hell, I'm no horse-stealer! But I couldn't explain to them, except that I had to git to Bindon to save a man's life.
Clancey's interest was evidently aroused. He wanted to hear all about Madame de Corantin. "She seems to have fascinated you," he remarked. "She'd fascinate anybody." "And you really don't know what has become of her? How extraordinary!" "Isn't it?" "You mean to say you cannot trace her in any way?" "I have no more idea than the man in the moon where she is." Clancey reflected.
The keen eyes on the bank watched the canoe till it was lost in the half-gloom below the first rapids, and then they went slowly back to Tom Sanger's house. "So there'll be no wedding to-morrow," said the Man from Clancey's. "Funerals, more likely," drawled another. "Jinny Long's in that canoe, an' she ginerally does what she wants to," said Tom Sanger sagely.
One of their number, known as the Man from Clancey's had, however, been outside when Dingley had dropped from the window, and had seen him from a distance. He had not given the alarm, but had followed, to make the capture by himself.
Dingley ain't escaped from gaol. You got no right to fire at him." "No one ever went down Dog Nose Rapids at night," said the Man from Clancey's, whose shot had got Dingley's arm. "There ain't a chance of them doing it. No one's ever done it." The two were in the roaring rapids now, and the canoe was jumping through the foam like a racehorse.
Sometimes, as now, they concluded an evening visit by sitting in Clancey's or Warwick's car parked outside the Douglas fence, holding an impromptu post-mortem on an intellectual corpse that had come to life in complete defiance of all the rules.
The keen eyes on the bank watched the canoe till it was lost in the half-gloom below the first rapids, and then they went slowly back to Tom Sanger's house. "So there'll be no wedding to-morrow," said the Man from Clancey's. "Funerals, more likely," drawled another. "Jinny Long's in that canoe, an' she ginerally does what she wants to," said Tom Sanger sagely.
Now in Clancey's George found a crumpled copy of the Evening Journal almost afloat on the high-tide of the dregs-drenched bar. It may have been the stimulation of his drink, but it was probably nothing more nor less than jealousy that sparked his sluggish imagination as he contemplated a two-column reproduction in coarse half-tone of a photograph entitled "Marian Blessington."
Some one will come for me, I guess, after a while. If I were back right now in our town, I could walk into Ed Clancey's restaurant and have ham and eggs, or steak and eggs, or anything, for thirty-five cents. Our town up home is a peach of a little town, anyway. Say, I just feel as if I'd like to take my satchel and jump clean out of that window. It would be a good rebuke to them.
"There is something I wanted to tell you, Froelich." Bobby waited impatiently. "That lady you were talking about, Madame de Corantin. I think I remember something." Bobby was nervously anxious to get away. What Clancey had to tell him mattered little now. "Oh, thanks very much, Clancey. The fact is, I've seen her." Clancey's nonchalant manner changed instantaneously. "Really!" he exclaimed.
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