Wint said a little impatiently: “You’re talking in a mysterious way, Kite. I don’t see your object. If you’ve no plain words in your system, we’re wasting time.”
“I’ve a plain word for you. Hardiston will have a plain word for you.” There was a deadly menace in the little man’s tone, and Wint felt it, and was a little impressed. But he managed a smile.
“I’ve a plain word for Lutcher, too,” he said. “You’re keeping Lutcher waiting.”
“Oh, Lutcher,” said Kite again. “You’ll let him go.”
“Hardly,” said Wint; and Kite cried:
“I say you will. Don’t be a fool. I tell you I know.”
“You may know some things,” said Wint slowly. “But you are wrong about Lutcher. He gets the limit.”
Kite leaned forward; and his voice was almost kind. “Young man,” he said, “you’ve good nerve. You’re a good fighter. You’re a vote getter, too, in an awkward way. If I didn’t have the winning hand, I should be worried about what you can do. But I have; from the person who knows. You’re beaten. You might as well accept it.”
“If I’m beaten,” said Wint, “I’ll know it by midnight of the eighth. Not by your telling.”
Kite lost his temper for an instant; and he cried: “You miserable little dog! With not even the grace to know you’re whipped.”