"No, I don't. Little, dried-up geezer with a nose like a kit-fox's and
a whine to his voice. He won't come around here no more."

The door opened gustily and a big fellow with a skinned nose and a
whimsical pair of eyes looked in, hesitated while he stared hard at
Ford, and then entered and shut the door by the simple method of
throwing his shoulders back against it.

"Hello, old sport--how you comin'?" he cried cheerfully. "Kinda wet for
makin' calls, but when a man's loaded down with a guilty conscience--"
He sighed somewhat ostentatiously and pulled forward a chair rejuvenated
with baling-wire braces between the legs, and a cowhide seat. "What's
that cookin'--coffee, or sheep-dip?" he inquired facetiously of Sandy,
though his eyes dwelt solicitously upon Ford's bowed head. He leaned
forward and slapped Ford in friendly fashion upon the shoulder.

"Buck up--'the worst is yet to come,'" he shouted, and laughed with an
exaggeration of cheerfulness. "You can't ever tell when death or
matrimony's goin' to get a man. By hokey, seems like there's no dodgin'
either one."

Ford lifted a bloodshot eye to the other. "And I always counted you for
a friend, Bill," he reproached heavily. "Sandy says I licked you good
and plenty. Well, looks to me like you had it coming, all right."

"Well--I got it, didn't I?" snorted Bill, his hand lifting involuntarily
to his nose. "And I ain't bellering, am I?" His mouth took an abused,
downward droop. "I ain't holdin' any grudge, am I? Why, Sandy here can
tell you that I held one side of you up whilst he was leadin' the other