“What’re you after?”
“Dungan’s my name,” said Bob pleasantly. “I’m from the Chronicle.”
He saw the other’s scowl deepen. “I said what I’d do.... Next damn reporter came out here. What you want, anyway?”
“I want to ask you a few questions. About your wife....”
The pugilist dropped his hand on little Bob Dungan’s shoulder. His left hand. His right jerked into sight with a revolver; he thrust the muzzle of it into Bob’s face. “You smell that,” he cried, truculently. “I’ll blow your damn head off.”
Bob—laughed. “Why, that’s all right,” he replied. If he had squirmed, struggled, or even if he had been afraid, the other’s drunken anger might have given him strength to shoot. There was very real and deadly peril in the situation. But Bob, unafraid, laughed; and the prize-fighter could see that there was no fear in the little man’s eyes. “That’s all right,” said Bob. “Go ahead.”
Brenton did not shoot. He hesitated uncertainly, his slow wits wavering. And Bob asked sympathetically:
“Did she treat you pretty bad?”
“Bad?” Brenton echoed. “Why, the things she’s done to me—Why, say....”
“That’s tough,” the reporter murmured.