He ain't got back to
where he was before the war," remarked Osterhaut sagely.
"War--that business at Barbazon's! You call that war! It wasn't war,"
declared Jowett spasmodically, grasping the rail of the fire-engine as
the wheel struck a stone and nearly shot them from their seats. "It
wasn't war. It was terrible low-down treachery. That Gipsy gent, Fawe,
pulled the lever, but Marchand built the scaffold."
"Heard anything more about Marchand--where he is?" asked Osterhaut, as
the hoofs of the horses clattered on the bridge.
"Yes, I've heard--there's news," responded Jowett. "He's been lying drunk
at Gautry's caboose ever since yesterday morning at five o'clock, when he
got off the West-bound train. Nice sort of guy he is. What's the good of
being rich, if you can't be decent Some men are born low. They always
find their level, no matter what's done for them, and Marchand's level is
the ditch."
"Gautry's tavern--that joint!" exclaimed Osterhaut with repulsion.
"Well, that ranchman, Dennis What's-his-name, is looking for him, and
Felix can't go home or to the usual places. I dunno why he comes back at
all till this Dennis feller gits out."
"Doesn't make any bones about it, does he? Dennis Doane's the name, ain't
it? Marchand spoiled his wife-run away with her up along the Wind River,
eh?" asked Osterhaut.
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