“No?” was the careless retort. “It’s always hunting season—for foxes and other vermin.”
The second bristled.
“Whatcha mean by voimin?” he growled.
Douglas turned an amused face to him.
“Hello, Brooklyn!” he laughed. “This is the foist time I’ve hoid that Sands-Street accent since I came up here. How’s your thoist?”
The first grinned at the mimicry of his mate. The second, though he still looked truculent, blinked.
“Takes an oily boid to catch a woim up here,” gibed the blond man. “But who’s the woim? I haven’t hoid of any squoiming around on this toif.”
Whereat the first man chuckled and the second turned brick-color.
“Whatcha mean by that stuff?” he rasped. “How’d ya git the idear I was lookin’ for anybody? You know too much, you do. Come on, now, I guess me and you’ll have a little talk. And you can lay that gun down on the floor, see?”
Douglas laughed derisively.