“You put in too many hours down here, Mr. Grillage,” he said, much as he might have said it to his own father. “How about that fishing trip you were going to take with Dad?”
“We’re going, pretty soon, now,” was the gruff reply. And then: “David, you’re right; I’ve got too darned many irons in the fire, and some of ’em get too hot, and some of ’em freeze. Hurry up and get through with this Short Line crucifixion, so you can take hold and blow some of the other bellowses for me.”
“‘Crucifixion’ is right!” said David, with a workmanlike scowl. “I haven’t worried you much about the job lately, but the railroad people—with Lushing egging them on, of course—have been mighty active for the past few days—perniciously active, I’d say. I didn’t know what was up until just now; though I’ve been ready for anything. It seems they’ve been trying to find a peg upon which to hang a legal fight, and they think they’ve found it—just what sort of a peg, I don’t know.”
“Legal, you say; do you mean criminal?”
“Plegg thinks it may be; based on alleged jerry-work on the bridges, or something of that sort. Anyhow, Lushing is on his way up here with a gang of subsidized deputies, and Crawford telephones that the object of the raid is to arrest you and me.”
“Huh!” grunted the giant, straightening himself in his chair. “Going to try that, is he?”
“So Crawford says. I came to ask you to go up to the hotel and let me handle it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Some few days ago I met Lushing and we had a—er—well, a little disagreement, you might call it. He——”
“I heard about it,” interrupted the boss of bosses, with a satisfied grin. “You beat him up and warned him to stay off the job if he wanted to keep his hide whole. I owe you something for that, David; it did me a whole lot of good. But go on.”