As he passed Barnes, he
winked broadly, and said, out of the corner of his mouth:
"He'd make DeWolf Hopper look sick, wouldn't he?"
Barnes glanced over his shoulder a moment later and saw the book-agent
studying the register. The poise of his sleek head, however, suggested
a listening attitude. Putnam Jones, not four feet away, was speaking
into the telephone receiver. As the receiver was restored to its hook,
Barnes turned again. Jones and the book-agent were examining the
register, their heads almost meeting from opposite sides of the desk.
The latter straightened up, stretched his arms, yawned, and announced
in a loud tone that he guessed he'd step out and get a bit of fresh
air before turning in.
"Any news?" inquired Barnes, approaching the desk after the door had
closed behind the book-agent.
"It wasn't the sheriff," replied Jones shortly, and immediately
resumed his interrupted discourse on books, book-agents and the
reclamation of Boston. Ten minutes elapsed before the landlord's
garrulity was checked by the sound of an automobile coming to a stop
in front of the house. Barnes turned expectantly toward the door.
Almost immediately the car started up again, with a loud shifting of
gears, and a moment later the door opened to admit, not a fresh
arrival, but the little book-agent.
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