But one evening, a fortnight later, he came upon Roberts in the hall. “Well,” said Breeze, with abrupt directness, “did he get away?”
Roberts started, uttered an oath which it is possible the Recording Angel passed to his credit, and said, “Yes, HE got away all right!”
“Why, hasn’t his wife joined him?”
“No. Never, in this world, I reckon; and if anywhere in the next, I don’t want to go there!” said Roberts furiously.
“Is he dead?”
“Dead? That kind don’t die!”
“What do you mean?”
Roberts’s lips writhed, and then, with a strong effort, he said with deliberate distinctness, “I mean—that the hound went off with another woman—that—was—in—that schooner, and left that fool Shuckster adrift in the plunger.”
“And the wife and children?”
“Shuckster sold his shanty at Petaluma to pay their
