Nate Samson, weighing sugar for Hazel Walton, looked at her sidewise.
"Heard the news, Hazel?"
She removed her gaze from the flyspecked window and stared abstractedly
at Nate. "What news?"
Nate swelled his chest with satisfaction. Some people enjoy being the
bearers of evil tidings. Besides, Nate had stopped going to see Hazel.
Somehow he had been made to feel that his visits were not the bright
spots in her drab existence that he had considered them to be. There
was more than a little malice in Nate's make-up. And the news----
"Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night."
Nate's hand pushed the sliding weight several notches along the scale
beam. Red Herring, the town marshal, slouching with seeming
aimlessness against a showcase at the other end of the counter,
covertly watched the girl.
"Somebody killed Tip O'Gorman in his own house last night," said Nate.
Hazel wondered why Nate's eyes never left her face. "Tip O'Gorman! He
was one of Uncle Tom's friends. Who did it?"
Nate's eyes were fairly devouring her. The man looked positively
pleased. "They don't know yet. But--" He paused.