"Well, what do yer think I am? A lady's maid?"
"Don't be silly--I just hate to sit here talking to you, looking such a fright!"
"So that's it," he laughed. "Don't try yer Blarney on me! I'm as ugly as mud and yer knows it. Though I'll say yer need a little make-up--and I'll let yer have it. But just get rid of that idea that you've got me buffaloed--yer haven't!"
He pushed back his chair and coming round the table, untied the rope that bound her wrists.
"Thanks." She began to rub her hands, which were numbed and sore.
"Don't mention it," he leered. "Now yer can doll up to yer heart's content while I shovel some more chow into me. I sure am empty an' that's no lie!"
"Hey, Mike!" called a man's voice from the doorway behind her. "Where do they keep the wheelbarrer in this godforsakin' dump?"
"In the shed out back," returned Mike, sliding his chair up to the table again and picking up his knife. "What yer want it for? What's the trouble?"
"Trouble enough!" grumbled the other. "There's a couple o' guys messed up pretty bad down the line. Need somethin' to cart 'em up here in. Sling me a hunk o' bread, will yer? I ain't had no chow."
"Tough luck!" Mike replied callously, his mouth full, and tossed him half a loaf. "So long."