"I say, that's a bally lie, you know." Whitby's drawling voice electrified the company. Those behind him hastily changed their positions. Dave, with a curse, reached again for his gun—it lay on the floor against the wall, where it had fallen.
"Drop it, Dave," came Slick's grating command. "Think I got nothin' to do but clean up after you? Which yo 're too hot to stay indoors. Go outside and cool off."
"You tell me to git out?" exclaimed Dave, incredulously.
"That's what," was Slick's dogged reply. "The Britisher wants to speak his piece an' all interruptions is barred entirely. An' don't let Sandy see you for a month."
Dave walked over and picked up his gun. "To h—l with Sandy," he cursed. The door slammed open and he was gone.
Slick slid his weapon back onto the shelf and proceeded to admonish Whitby. "See here, Brit, don't you never call a man a liar 'less yo 're sure you can shoot first."
"But dash it all! the man is a liar, you know. The German chap said 'you d—n scoundrel! Traitor to my master, eh!' There 's nothing in that about cheating, is there?"
"Well, mebbe not," agreed Slick, "but comparisons is odorous, you don't want to forget that. Which we 'll drink to the memory of th' dead departed. What 'll it be, boys?"
CHAPTER VII
THE FRENCH ROSE