“What are you doing?” he said.
“Vell,” said the stout man, “I t’ink I should take some interest. I t’ink maybe it iss best if you git up und leave the young man alone. For sure. You should get up, und you should shut up. Right off.”
The man’s voice was not raised, not angry or menacing, rather genial, in fact, but the thing pressed against Philip’s ribs was not genial. Nor was it an instrument encouraging one to dispute.
“Git up,” the stout man repeated, and Potter obeyed sullenly.
Philip struggled to his feet, scowling. “I told you to keep out of this,” he said to Potter. “You’re one of them that won’t take advice. You come beggin’ for it, and now you’re gettin’ it.... You boys keep him here an hour—after that I don’t care what becomes of him.... Then you better beat it. The government dicks are wise to us. I guess the circus is over.”
“One hour?” said the stout man.
“That’ll be plenty.”
“He will stay—like goot young man,” said the stout individual, pleasantly. “You go along, mit nottings to worry.”
Philip went first into the rear portion of the house, where the living quarters of the proprietor had their location—judging, at least, from the odor of cookery. He remained five minutes, then reappeared. He had done the telephoning he had come to do.
“Don’t let him make his getaway,” he said, as he went out of the door.