"Eight o'clock!" Hardy cried. "And the place belongs to me!" He turned to Pell. "Anything more from you?" he inquired, and smiled.
The other stared at him; but he said nothing. Instead, he went over again to the table, and wet his handkerchief in the bowl, again refusing Lucia's proffered assistance with a wave of his other hand. He bathed his own wound. And meanwhile Hardy was saying to Gilbert:
"Well, young feller, it's your move."
"His move!" "Red" repeated the phrase. "Say, you wouldn't go and skin him out of the place all over again, would you?"
Hardy sneered. "I'm going to foreclose, certainly, if that's what you mean, you impudent young scoundrel!"
"You mean you would trim him again?" "Red" didn't believe it.
"Say, boy, you better use your head. You're going to marry my darter, ain't you?"
"Yes—I hope so," the foreman said.
"Well, don't you realize that all I got will eventually go to you and her? Don't you?"