"Nev-air!" Pierre shouted. "Nev-air, and nev-air do I come back!" He
bristled out of the store, turned to fling a final "Nev-air, pig!" back
into it, and confronted Jeff.
"You know what he do?" he screamed. "I need the knife, the good hunting
knife! For it he wants a doll-air and twenty-five cents!"
"Maybe they're worth that much."
"_Non!_ Nev-air!" He looked seriously at Jeff. "You sell the hunting
knife?"
"I do not compete with merchants."
"You sell the hunting knife?" Pierre repeated.
"I--"
"Sell me the hunting knife!"
"But--"
"This I demand! Sell me the hunting knife!"
With every show of reluctance, Jeff drew a hunting knife with a
three-inch blade from his pack. Pierre snatched it and his eyes lighted
deliriously.
"How much?"
"A dollar and twenty cents."
"Is good!"
Pierre pressed a rumpled dollar bill and two dimes into Jeff's hand,
danced back to the store entrance and waved the knife as though he were
about to go scalping with it.
"See!" he screamed at the storekeeper. "Dog! See! The pedd-lair, he do
better than you! I have the hunting knife!"
Pierre stamped fiercely away and Jeff settled back to watch. But only
for a moment.
The man who came out of the store was no more than five feet three and
so thin that he seemed in imminent danger of collapsing. His nose,
covering a fair share of his face, was oddly like a rudder. A few
strands of blond hair clung precariously to his head and his eyes were
furious.
"Did you sell that man a knife?"
"Yes, I did."
Without further ceremony, but with a roar that seemed incapable of
emerging from one so small, the storekeeper bellowed,
"Joe!"
It was a signal Jeff had heard many times in many voices that expressed
it many ways. This was one of the occasions when Tarrant Enterprises,
Ltd., had better move fast. The dog fell in beside him as Jeff started
to run. He was too late, though.
It was as though the storekeeper possessed some magical quality that
could conjure up images at will. Jeff's path was suddenly blocked by a
burly two-hundred-and-ten-pound man who wore a gun, a constable's badge,
an air of authority, and who had never wasted any time acquiring fat. He
loomed over Jeff as a mountain looms over a knoll.
"What's up?" he demanded.
"This peddler," the storekeeper reverted to his customary snappish
voice, "is interfering with merchants. He sold Pierre LeLerc a hunting
knife."
"Did you?" the constable asked Jeff.
"Yes, but I have a license."
"It's not one that allows you to peddle in business districts," the
storekeeper asserted. "Jail him, Joe."
"You comin' peaceable?" the constable asked. "Or should I take you!"
"Peaceable," Jeff answered hurriedly. "Always peaceable."
"Come on, then. Your dog got a license?"
"Look for yourself. Just sort of watch your hand."
"That dog bite?"
"Not usually."
"See that he don't, huh?"
"I'll see," Jeff promised.
He fell resignedly in beside the constable while Pal paced behind him.
He thought ruefully of how little a feeling of good fortune could be
trusted. Still, by no means would this be the first jail to have him as
guest, and probably it would not be the last. He might as well make the
best of it.
"Nice town you have here," he said companionably.
"Yeah," the constable was entirely willing to be friendly, "it's all
right."
"How long have you been chief of police in Cressman?"
"Nine years. Say! That's a good title! Chief of Police, huh?"
"You should call yourself that," Jeff asserted. "Do you have much
trouble?"