“You will find a safety catch on the left side of the barrel,” continued Jimmy, pointing to the pistol; “snick it up—you can always push it down again with your thumb if you really mean business. You are not my idea of a burglar. You breathe too noisily, and you are built too clumsily; why, I heard you open the front door!”
The quiet contempt in the tone brought a deeper red into the man’s face.
“Oh, you are a clever ’un, we know!” he began, and the old man, who had recovered his self-command, motioned him to a chair.
“Sit down, Mister Massey,” he snapped; “sit down, my fine fellow, an’ tell us all the news. Jimmy an’ me was just speakin’ about you, me an’ Jimmy was. We was saying what a fine gentleman you was”—his voice grew shrill—“what a swine, what an overfed, lumbering fool of a pig you was, Mister Massey!”
He sank back into the depths of his chair exhausted.
“Look here, governor,” began Massey again—he had laid his pistol on a table by his side, and waved a large red hand to give point to his remarks—“we don’t want any unpleasantness. I’ve been a good friend to you, an’ so has Jimmy. We’ve done your dirty work for years, me an’ Jimmy have, and Jimmy knows it”—turning with an ingratiating smirk to the subject of his remarks—“and now we want a bit of our own—that is all it amounts to, our own.”
Old Reale looked under his shaggy eyebrows to where Jimmy sat with brooding eyes watching the fire.
“So it’s a plant, eh? You’re both in it. Jimmy comes first, he being the clever one, an’ puts the lay nice an’ snug for the other feller.”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Wrong,” he said. He turned his head and took a long scrutiny of the newcomer, and the amused contempt of his gaze was too apparent.