Part 22 (1/2)
The honest McGuffey hung his head. ”A little bit,” he replied childishly.
”What d'ye call a little bit?”
”Three hundred dollars, Gib.”
”Secured?”
”He gimme his note at eight per cent. The savin's bank only pays four.”
”Is the note secured by endors.e.m.e.nt or collateral?”
”No.”
”Hum-m-m! Strange you didn't say nothin' to me about this till I had to pry it out o' you, Bart. How about you?”
”Well, Scraggsy was feelin' so dog-goned blue----”
”The truth,” Mr. Gibney insisted firmly, ”the truth, Bart.”
”Well, Scraggsy asked me not to say anythin' to you about it.”
”Sure. He knew I'd kill the deal. He knew better'n to try to nick me for three hundred bucks on his danged, worthless note. Bart, why'd you do it?”
”Oh, h.e.l.l, Gib, be a good feller,” poor McGuffey pleaded. ”Don't be too hard on ol' Scraggsy.”
”We're discussin' _you_, Bart. 'Pears to me you've sort o' lost confidence in your old s.h.i.+pmate, ain't you? 'Pears that way to me when you act sneaky like.”
McGuffey bridled. ”I ain't a sneak.”
”A rose by any other name'd be just as sweet,” Mr. Gibney quoted.
”You poor, misguided simp. If you ever see that three hundred dollars again you'll be a lot older'n you are now. However, that ain't none o' my business. The fact remains, Bart, that you conspired with Scraggsy to keep things away from me, which shows you ain't the man I thought you were, so from now on you go your way an' I'll go mine.”
”I got a right to do as I blasted please with my own money,”
McGuffey defended hotly. ”I ain't no child to be lectured to.”
”Considerin' the fact that you wouldn't have had the money to lend if it hadn't been for me, I allow I'm insulted when you use the said money to give aid an' comfort to my enemy. I'm through.”
McGuffey, smothered in guilt, felt nevertheless that he had to stand by his guns, so to speak. ”Stay through, if you feel like it,” he retorted. ”Where d'ye get that chatter? Ain't I free, white, an' twenty-one year old?”
Mr. Gibney was really hurt. ”You poor b.o.o.b,” he murmured. ”It's the old game o' settin' a beggar on horseback an' seein' him ride to the devil, or slippin' a gold ring in a pig's nose. An' I figured you was my friend!”
”Well, ain't I?”
”Fooey! Fooey! Don't talk to me. You'd sell out your own mother.”
”Them's fightin' words, Gib.”
”Shut up.”
”Gib, you tryin' to pick a fight with me?”
”No, but I would if I thought I wouldn't git a footrace instead,”