"'Course I'll do whatever you say, Mac," he answered humbly.
The Scotch-Canadian brushed the swivel chair and its occupant to one
side, drew up another chair in front of the desk, and faced Selfridge
squarely. The eyes that blazed at the little man were the grimmest he
had ever looked into.
"Go to the hotel and see this man Elliot alone. Tell him he's gone too
far--butted into my affairs once too often. There's not a man alive I'd
stand it from. My orders are for him to get out on the next boat. If
he's here after that, I'll kill him on sight."
The color ebbed out of the florid face of Wally. He moistened his lips
to speak. "Good God, Mac, you can't do that. He'll go out and
report--"
"To hell with his report. Let him say what he likes. Put this to him
straight: that he and I can't stay in this town--_and both of us
live_."
Wally had lapped up too many highballs in the past ten years to relish
this kind of a mission. He had depressed his nerves with overmuch
tobacco and spurred them with liquors, had dissipated his force in many
small riotings. His nerve was gone. He had not the punch any more.
Yet Mac was always expecting him to help out with his rough stuff, he
reflected fretfully.
Pages:
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177