Kenyon heard him out in dead silence. He had found the ash-tray, but he did not turn his head. After several dumb seconds, he walked across the room to the window, and stood there. Finally he spoke.
"I don't suppose," he said, in his calm, expressionless drawl, "that you have ever had a cowhiding in your life, have you?"
"What?" said Jerry.
He stared at Kenyon in frank amazement. Was the man mad?
"Never had a cowhiding in your life, eh?" repeated Kenyon, without moving.
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Jerry.
Kenyon remained motionless.
"I mean," he said calmly, "that I've thrashed a man to a pulp before now for a good deal less than you have just offered me. It's my special treatment for curs. Suits 'em wonderfully. And suits me, too."
Jerry sprang to his feet in a whirl of wrath, but before he could utter a word Kenyon suddenly turned.
"Go back to your sister," he said, in curt, stern tones, "and tell her from me that I will discuss this matter with her alone. If she intends to throw me over, she must come to me herself and tell me so. Go now!"