He's big every way you take him. He'll
stand the acid, Mac will."
"Do you mean that he's square--honest?"
"You've said two things, my friend," answered Strong dryly. "He's
square. If he tells you anything, don't worry because he ain't put down
his John Hancock before a notary. He'll see it through to a finish--to
a fighting finish if he has to. Don't waste any time looking for fat or
yellow streaks in Mac. They ain't there. Nobody ever heard him squeal
yet and what's more nobody ever will."
"No wonder men like him."
"But when you say honest--Hell, no! Not the way you define honesty
down in the States. He's a grabber, Mac is. Better not leave anything
valuable around unless you've got it spiked to the floor. He takes what
he wants."
"What does he look like?" asked Gordon.
"Oh, I don't know." Strong hesitated, while he searched for words to
show the picture in his mind. "Big as a house--steps out like a buck
in the spring--blue-gray eyes that bore right through you."
"How old?"
"Search me. You never think of age when you're looking at him.
Forty-five, mebbe--or fifty--I don't know."
"Married?"
"No-o." Hanford Strong nodded in the direction of the Kusiak circle.
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