I'm glad that we agree about books." "So'm I.Feller can kill a lot of time chinning about books." "Yes, I suppose a good many people have killed time over this book." And as he smiled genially upon the cowpuncher, Bard felt a great relief sweep over him, a mighty gladness that this was not Drew--that this looselipped gabbler was not the man who had written the epitaph over the tomb of Joan Piotto.

He lied about the book; he had lied about it all.
And knowing that this was not Drew, he felt suddenly as if someone were watching him from behind, someone large and grey and stern of eye, like the giant who had spoken to him so long before in the arena at Madison Square Garden.
A game was being played with him, and behind that game must be Drew himself; all Bard could do was to wait for developments.
The familiar, booming voice of Shorty Kilrain echoed through the house: "Supper!" And the loud clangour of a bell supported the invitation.
"Chow-time," breathed Lawlor heavily, like one relieved at the end of a hard shift of work.

"I figure you ain't sorry, son ?" "No," answered Bard, "but it's too bad to break off this talk.

I've learned a lot.".