"Got a job yet, Boris?" some one called.
"He's workin' for the Lang girl now," put in another.
Boris snarled and, flinging his tormentors away from him, made his way to the bar, jabbering excitedly in Russian to Pete Ankovitch.
Blagg moved nearer.
"What's he sayin', Pete?" he asked.
Ankovitch laughed.
"He say everybody go to hell," he interpreted. "He say he show Mascola he ain't 'fraid of no woman."
Blagg strove to focus his mind on the Russian's
words. Boris was sore as a boiled oil, crazy as a coot. And he had it in for the Lang girl for causing him to get the can. The Russian's reference to Mascola caused the furrows in Blagg's brow to deepen. Both of them were sore at the girl. Were they framing up? If they were he'd block the boss's game. He'd wise her. She'd always shot straight enough with him anyway, and he was a fool to have ever quit her. If Mascola was baiting the Russian to pull off some dirty work he'd——
Blagg paused in his tentative plans for outwitting Mascola as his eye fell on Neilson. There was the man he wanted to see. Swan could swing the Swedes into quitting the dago. All thought of Boris vanished from Blagg's mind as he drew Neilson aside and conferred confidentially with the big Swede in a drunken whisper. When he looked about for the Russian some time later, Boris was gone.