“Say,” said the Hawk politely, “you go to hell!”
MacVightie stepped forward toward the Hawk, with an ominous scowl; and, throwing back the lapel of his coat, tapped grimly with his forefinger on a shield that decorated his vest.
The Hawk whistled low.
“O-ho!” said the Hawk, with sudden cordiality. “Well, why didn't you say so before?”
“I'm saying it now!” snarled MacVightie. “Well, where do you come from?”
“Chicago,” said the Hawk.
“What's your business?”—MacVightie's eyes were roving sharply again around the room.
“Barkeep—when I can get a job,” answered the Hawk; and then, insinuatingly: “And, say, I'm looking for one now, and if you can put me on to anything I'd——”
“I guess you've got to show me!” growled Mac-Vightie, uncompromisingly.
“Look here,” ventured the Hawk, “what's up?”