“Don’t talk so loud, Short; some one may hear you.”
“I’ll talk as loud as I please. Don’t you tell me what or what not to do, you miserable failure!”
“I’ve had enough of that kind of talk, Short; you can pipe that down from now on.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Perhaps after a little jail experience you will wish you hadn’t been so lippy to me.”
The other in sudden temper jumped upon him, and shook him violently. The weak, dissipated Short was but a child in the hands of the athletic Creelton. His teeth chattered in fear of what might be coming.
“Don’t hurt me,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“You’re a hound,” growled Creelton; “now, Short, just understand one thing: if you ever threaten me again, or say jail to me, I’ll beat you into a pulp; I’ve had all of that kind of talk from you I’m going to stand.”
“What will you do if I use your confession against you? Have you thought of that?”
“Yes, I have; I don’t doubt it would dismiss me but I’d make a clean breast of everything. You have that letter, have you? Well, I have all of yours; everything I have stolen has been at your instigation; your letters will prove that; if you try to use that written confession of mine you will start a blast against your name that will fill columns in every paper in the country. If I go to jail I’ll take good pains to see that you are my companion there.”
“Creelton, you wouldn’t treat me that way after all the money I’ve given you, would you?”