"Better come on home, Reddy," he said, with one of his rare smiles.
"Later," Reddy flung out.
"Better make it now," said Bradley quietly.
The group behind had come up with them now, and, crowding into Faro Dave's place, paused a moment in the entrance to absorb the situation.
"Be a good boy, Reddy, and do as you're told," one of them sang out.
Reddy whirled on Bradley, the hot blood flushing his face.
"I wish you'd mind your own blasted business!" he flared. "I'm blamed good and sick of you tagging me. This isn't the first time. You make me weary! The trouble with you is that you don't know anything but the everlasting grouch you carry around. You're a funeral! You're a tight-wad. Everybody says so. Nobody ever heard of you spending a cent. Go on—beat it—leave me alone!"
Bradley's face whitened a little, but the smile was still on his lips.
"Better draw your fire, Reddy; there's no need of getting hot," he said. "Come on home; you know what'll happen if you don't; and you know what Regan told you back there in the roundhouse."
"So you heard that, eh?" Reddy shot at him. "I thought you did; and you thought you'd fool me by hanging around there, playing innocent, to walk home with me, eh?"