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I'll be home to breakfast. I ain't in no trouble an' I ain't goin' to be. You can believe that or you can set there callin' Casey Ryan a liar till I git back. G'by." Whatever the Little Woman thought of it, Casey really meant to do exactly what he said he would do. And he really did not believe that trouble was within a hundred miles of him. "Wanta drive?"
"Fix it for tomorrow night, will you, Roger?" he flung at me from the doorway as he slipped into his great coat. "Nothing elaborate, you know; just a sound soup, entrée, roast, salad and dessert. And for wines, the simplest, say sherry, champagne and perhaps some port." "Shall you be back to luncheon?" I inquired. "No; dinner, perhaps. G'by!"
There's a white shirt and a collar and two pairs of sox, and what not, in there. Make quite an object for some sharper." He nodded solemnly. "If you git invited out to his house," she said, "it'll save you a dollar hotel bill, anyhow, and be a heap sight safer." "You're right, Mandy, as usual," he agreed. "G'by, Mandy. I calculate you won't have no trouble mindin' the store."
O' course I tell her she's pirtier than ever, but that only makes her mad. She can't go to sociables or dances or picnics, and if she could she's got no clo'es. We don't have much fun together; just sit and mope, and then I say: 'Well, guess I better mosey on home, and she says: 'All right; see you again next Sunday, I s'pose. G'by."
"G'by," he called after Racey as the door closed. Mr. Pooley leaned far back in his chair. He saw Racey Dawson stop on the sidewalk in front of the two detectives. The three conversed a moment, then Racey entered the Kearney House. The two detectives remained where they were. Mr. Pooley arose and left the room. "You gotta get out of here!" It was Mr. Pooley speaking with great asperity.
In view of the to do about prohibition and bootlegging in this country, it would be swell to have a feature story about bootlegging in Canada. Run up to Quebec and Montreal and stop at places between and give us a story will you. That Tontine story was a nice story, Jimmy, g'by." Hite had talked fast in jerky sentences. All Jimmy had said was, "Hello." The wire was dead.
The fourth occupant of Anthony's section spoke up suddenly. "G'by, liberty," he said sullenly. "G'by, everything except bein' an officer's dog." Anthony looked at him. He was a tall Irishman with an expression moulded of indifference and utter disdain. His eyes fell on Anthony, as though he expected an answer, and then upon the others.
As he approached he surveyed us with a surly frown that changed slowly into a leering grin. He lurched over and placed a hand familiarly on my shoulder. "We mus' part," he announced, dramatically. "O, weh! The bes' of frien's m'z part. Well, g'by, li'l interfering Teufel. F'give you, though, b'cause you're such a pretty li'l Teufel."
No church in mine this morning, thanks! G'by, ole sox; see you at the 'frat house' for dinner." He went forth, whistling syncopations, and began a brisk trudge into the open country. There was a professor's daughter who also was not going to church that morning; and she lived a little more than three miles beyond the outskirts of the town.
"G'by, Scattergood," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "I'll be relieved to see you gittin' back." There seemed to be little sentiment in these, their words of parting, but in reality it was an exceedingly sentimental passage for them. Between Scattergood and his wife there was a deep, true, abiding affection.
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