The girl strode forward, and with the strength of a man, pitched
down a dozen sticks with lightning speed.
"There!" she cried, turning to Tom. "There you find him--you find
him whiskey. You say you spill. No more my father he's drunk all
day, he beat my mother."
I stepped out.
"So, Tom Barrett," I said, "you've played the d----d sneak and
hunted it out!"
He fairly jumped at the sound of my voice; then he got white as
paper, and then--something came into his face that I never saw
before. It was a look like his father's, the old missionary.
"Yes, McLeod," he answered. "And I've hunted _you_ out. It's cost
me the loss of a whole term at college and a considerable amount of
self-respect, but I've got my finger on you now!"
The whole infernal trick burst right in on my intelligence. If I
had had a revolver, he would have been a dead man; but border
traders nowadays are not desperadoes with bowie knives and hip
pockets--
"You surely don't mean to split on me?" I asked.
"I surely don't mean to do anything else," he cheeked back.
"Then, Tom Barrett," I sputtered, raging, "you're the dirtiest cad
and the foulest liar that ever drew the breath of life."
"I dare say I am," he said smoothly.
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