Our folks thought a great deal of him, Mr. Meredith; I don't
believe there's any thinks more. But it's come to that now; you can't
hardly see no chance left. We be'n sweating this other man, Slattery, but
we can't break him down. Jest tells us to go to"--the sheriff paused,
evidently deterred by the thought that swear-words were unbefitting a
hospital--"to the other place, and shets his jaw up tight. The one up here
is called the Teller, as Mr. Barrett says; his name's Jerry the Teller.
Well, we told Slattery that Jerry had died and left a confession; tried to
make him think there wasn't no hope fer him, and he might as well up and
tell his share; might git off easier; warned him to look out for a mob if
he didn't, maybe, and so on, but it never bothered him at all. He's nervy,
all right. Told us to go--that is, he said it again--and swore the Teller
was on his way to Chicago, swore he seen him git on the train. Wouldn't
say another word tell he got a lawyer. So, 'soon as it was any use, we
come up here--they reckon he'll come to before he dies. We'll be glad to
have you go in with us," Horner said kindly. "I reckon it's all the same
to Mr. Barrett."
"He will die, will he, Gay?" Meredith asked, turning to the surgeon.
"Oh, not necessarily," the young man replied, yawning slightly behind his
hand, and too long accustomed to straightforward questions to be shocked
at an evident wish for a direct reply.
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