“I’m charging him with assault and with using profane language,” said Wint.
“Assault?” Routt laughed. “Thought it was you that did the assaulting.”
“He made threats. Threats constitute an assault. You know that as well as I do.”
Routt nodded. “Oh, sure.” He added: “You know, the carnival’s shut up. It’s costing Rand money. You might go as light as you can.”
“I’m going to give the other man the limit,” said Wint.
“That’s all right,” Routt agreed. “Rand’s sore at him for getting caught. He’ll let the poor gink take his medicine.”
Wint nodded abstractedly. Foster, the city solicitor, had just come in, and Wint beckoned to him, and asked: “What’s the worst I can do on a charge of illegal liquor selling?”
“Two hundred dollars’ fine on the first offense,” Foster told him.
Three minutes later, the offender was protesting that he could not pay such a fine; he was appealing desperately to Rand. Wint bade the carnival boss stand up. Rand got to his feet.
“I’m sorry for this business,” he said humbly. “I thought you were just trying to save your face. Running a bluff.”