“There’s no tellin’ what I’ll do if I lose my nerve,” said Nolan, threateningly. “Where ’re you stoppin’?”
“Over here at the village. And mighty dull it is.”
“Well, they’s nobody here knows me,” said Nolan. “S’pose we go over to your room an’ have a talk.”
“All right,” agreed Nevins, after an instant’s hesitation. And they walked away together. “What are you going to do now?” he asked, a moment later.
“Th’ fust thing I’m a-goin’ t’ do,” answered Nolan, his eyes shining fiercely, “is t’ git even with that dirty rat of an Allan West, who sent me to th’ pen.”
“All right,” said Nevins, heartily. “I’m with you there. I don’t like him, either. Only, of course, you’ll not—you’ll not—”
“Oh, don’t be afeerd,” snarled Nolan. "I ain’t a-goin’ t’ kill him. I got too much sense t’ run my head in a noose. Besides, that ain’t what I want. That ain’t good enough! I want somethin’ t’ happen that’ll disgrace him, that he’ll never git over—somethin’ that’ll haunt him all his life. He holds his head too high, an’ I’m a-goin’ t’ make him hold it low!"
“I see,” said Nevins, thoughtfully. “Well, we can manage it some way.”
“O’ course we kin,” agreed Nolan, and licked his lips eagerly. “Afore I git through with him, he’ll be sorry he was ever born!”
Nevins nodded.