“You got it!” said Clancy bluntly.
Smarlinghue’s eyes roved about the room in a furtive, terror-stricken glance, his hand passed aimlessly over his eyes, and he crouched low down in his chair.
“No, no!” he whispered. “No, no—for God’s sake, Mr. Clancy, don’t ask me to do that! I can’t—I can’t! I—I wouldn’t be any good, I—I can’t! I—I won’t!”
Clancy thrust head and shoulders aggressively across the table.
“You will—if you know what’s good for you!” he said evenly. “And, what’s more, there’s a little job you’re going to break your hand in on to-night.”
“No! No, no! I can’t! I can’t!” Smarlinghue flung out his arms imploringly.
Clancy lowered his voice.
“Cut that out!” he snapped viciously. “What’s the matter with you! You’ll be well paid for it—and have police protection. You ought to know what that’ll mean to you—eh? You live like a gutter-snipe here—half starved most of the time, for all you can get out of those ungodly daubs!”
A curious dignity came to Smarlinghue. He sat upright.
“It is my art,” he said. “I have starved for it many years. Some day I will get recognition. Some day I—”