This reasoning did not give Merry much comfort. He began to realize that he was hungry. He had not felt the need of food before, so eager had he been to investigate the hotel registers.
Coming to what seemed like a respectable restaurant, he went in and gave an order.
He sat down near a table at which two men were eating. He noticed that, although they made a display of flashy jewelry, they were rather tough-looking chaps, decidedly sporty in their dress. One of them had a thick neck and close-cropped hair, while his face resembled that of a bulldog. The other addressed him as “Mul,” or “Muldoon.”
It soon became evident that the other man’s name was Rafferty. He had long, slim hands, with fingers that squirmed in a snakish manner. His eyes were restless and watchful.
Frank had a theory that most men betray the profession they follow by the language they use. While he was waiting for his order to be served he unconsciously listened to the talk of the two men.
“Well, Muldoon,” said the fellow with the snaky fingers. “I’ve taken your tip and shoved up a good wad on the sucker.”
“An’ yer all right, my boy,” asserted the owner of the bulldog face. “Dat chap ain’t so much of a sucker as some folks take him fer. Jest ’cause he comes from Chicago dey gives him dat name.”
“You feel sure he’ll brand the Maverick?”
“Do I? Well, say, ef I had a million I’d put it on dat. If he ever lands dat left maul on Kansas Jim’s neck der Maverick won’t know wot hit him.”
“There is no cold deck in this game, is there? It’s to be a square game with no holdout?”