“Not here,” quoth Mersher's brother.
“You'll do,” returned Spanish. “Give me ten dollars out of the damper.”
Mersher's brother held this proposal in finance to be foolishly impossible, and was explicit on that head. He insisted, not without scorn, that he was the last man in the world to give a casual caller ten dollars out of the damper or anything else.
“I'll be back,” replied Spanish, “an' I bet then you'll give me that ten-spot.”
“That's Johnny Spanish,” declared a bystander, when Spanish, muttering his discontent, had gone his threatening way.
Mersher's brother doubted it. He had heard of Spanish, but had never seen him. It was his understanding that Spanish was not in town at all, having lammistered some time before.
“He's wanted be th' cops,” Mersher's brother argued. “You don't suppose he's sucker enough to walk into their mitts? He wouldn't dare show up in town.”
“Don't con yourself,” replied the bystander, who had a working knowledge of Gangland and its notables. “That's Spanish, all right. He was out of town, but not because of the bulls. It's the Dropper he's leary of; an' now th' Dropper's in hock he's chased back. You heard what he said about comin' 'round ag'in? Take my tip an' rib yourself up wit' a rod. That Spanish is a tough kid!”
The evening wore on at Mersher's; one hour, two hours, three went peaceably by. The clock pointed to eleven.
Without warning a lowering figure appeared at the door.