"Ay ban yere by you fellers," he confessed sorrowfully, unable to
determine which person it was that wanted him.
"So I see," admitted the sheriff laconically. "Are you Nels Swanson?"
The fellow swallowed something in his throat that seemed to choke him.
This question sounded familiar; it brought back in a rush a
recollection of his late controversy with Mr. O'Brien. His face
flushed, his eyes hardening.
"Ay ban Nels Swanson!" he exploded, beating the air with clenched fist.
"Ay ban Lutheran! Ay ban shovel-man by Meester Burke. Ay get two
tollar saxty cint! Ay not give won tamn for you! Ay lick de fellar
vot ask me dot again!"
The sheriff stared at him, much as he might have examined a new and
peculiar specimen of bug.
"I don't recall having asked you anything about your family history,"
he said quietly, dropping one hand in apparent carelessness on the butt
of his "45." "Your name was all I wanted." He tapped the breast of
his coat suggestively, his gaze returning to Winston.
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