"Gentlemen, you remember Mr. Neale," said Lodge.
They were cordial--pleasant.
Warburton vigorously shook Neale's hand, and leaned back, after the
manner of matured men, to look Neale over.
"Young man, I'm glad to meet you again," he declared, in his big
voice. "Remember him! Well, I do--though he's thinner, older."
"Small wonder," interposed the chief. "He's been doing a man's
work."
"Neale, back there in Omaha you got sore--you quit us," went on
Warburton, reprovingly. "That was bad business. I cottoned to you--
and I might have--But no matter. You're with us again."
"Mr. Warburton, I'm ashamed of that," replied Neale, hastily. "But I
was hot-headed ... am so still, I fear."
"So am I. So is Lodge. So is any man worth a damn," replied the
director.
"Mr. Neale, you look cool enough now," observed Rogers, smiling.
"Wish I was as wet and cool as you are. It's hot--in this desert."
Warburton took off his frock-coat. "You gentlemen aren't going to
have any the best of me ... And now, Neale, tell us things."
Neale looked at his papers and then at his chief. "For instance,"
said Lodge, "tell us about Blake and Coffee."
"Haven't you seen them--heard from them?" inquired Neale.
"No. Henney has not, either. And they were his men."
"Gentlemen, I'm afraid I lost my head in regard to them.
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