It seemed absurd that there should be such a possibility; but the
world was full of strange things.
"What brought you to the West?" he asked as he filled a pipe, his back
almost against the wall.
"I came to get what belonged to me."
Ingolby laughed ironically. "Most of us are here for that purpose. We
think the world owes us such a lot."
"I know what is my own."
Ingolby lit his pipe, his eyes reflectively scanning the other.
"Have you got it again out here--your own?"
"Not yet, but I will."
Ingolby took out his watch, and looked at it. "I haven't found it easy
getting all that belongs to me."
"You have found it easier getting what belongs to some one else," was the
snarling response.
Ingolby's jaw hardened. What did the fellow mean? Did he refer to
money, or--was it Fleda Druse? "See here," he said, "there's no need to
say things like that. I never took anything that didn't belong to me,
that I didn't win, or earn or pay for--market price or 'founder's
shares'"--he smiled grimly. "You've given me the best treat I've had in
many a day. I'd walk fifty miles to hear you play my Sarasate--or even
old Berry's cotton-field fiddle.
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