“Who the devil, you old snake, gave you the right to interfere in my affairs?”
He simply looked up at me, the boot on one hand, the brush suspended in the other. His lower lip trembled—his arms began to tremble—but he made no attempt to defend himself.
“What have you been saying?” I demanded. “Speak, can’t you?”
But he couldn’t. I caught him by the collar and dragged him to his feet.
He had just the strength to stand on them, though his limp hands continued to hold the boot and the brush.
“Now are you going to speak? Or shall I kick you out?”
“You’d kick me out, Slim?”
The mildness of his voice maddened me.
“By God, I would!”
The brush and the boot fell with a dull clatter to the floor.