Hargus, his bleared old eyes blinking and watering, looked across the desk at the other.
"Oh, what's the game?" exclaimed Scannel. "I ain't here on exhibition, I guess. I—"
But he was interrupted by a sharp, quick gasp that all at once issued from Hargus's trembling lips. The old man said no word, but he leaned far forward in his chair, his eyes fixed upon Scannel, his breath coming short, his fingers dancing against his chin.
"Yes, that's him, Hargus," said Jadwin. "You and he had a big deal on your hands a long time ago," he continued, turning suddenly upon Scannel, a pulse in his temple beginning to beat. "A big deal, and you sold him out."
"It's a lie!" cried the other.
Jadwin beat his fist upon the arm of his chair. His voice was almost a shout as he answered:
"You—sold—him—out. I know you. I know the kind of bug you are. You ruined him to save your own dirty hide, and all his life since poor old Hargus has been living off the charity of the boys down here, pinched and hungry and neglected, and getting on, God knows how; yes, and supporting his little niece, too, while you, you have been loafing about your clubs, and sprawling on your steam yachts, and dangling round after your kept women—on the money you stole from him."
Scannel squared himself in his chair, his little eyes twinkling.
"Look here," he cried, furiously, "I don't take that kind of talk from the best man that ever wore shoe-leather. Cut it out, understand? Cut it out."
Jadwin's lower jaw set with a menacing click; aggressive, masterful, he leaned forward.