“It was while I was in the Police I got chummy with Van Bleit,” he volunteered.
Tom Hayhurst rose unexpectedly and swaggered through the group sprawling before the hearth, until he stood close to Lawless, with his back towards the fire.
“I wouldn’t mind making a wager there isn’t a man here who hasn’t heard of ‘Grit,’” he said.
His face was flushed, his mien slightly defiant, as though he challenged, not only the men he addressed, but the stern, keen-eyed man who surveyed him disapprovingly with his strangely penetrating, inscrutable grey eyes.
“‘Grit’!” The grizzled man looked up with a laugh. “Of course. That was the name you went by in the days when you weren’t Lawless either in name or occupation. To think I should forget!”
“You’re too damned modest,” yelled a youngster. “The chaps tell stories about you up in Rhodesia to-day.”
“Fairy-tales,” Lawless responded, smoking indifferently.
“That’s a lie, anyway,” retorted Hayhurst. “I know one or two facts.”
“Among facts I know about you,” Lawless replied sharply, “is that you gab too freely. Sit down, and shut up.”
Hayhurst looked nettled. He lost his ready assurance and lapsed into a sulky mood.