Freckles gripped the cudgel until his knuckles slowly turned purple.
“And are you railly saying so?” he inquired with elaborate politeness.
“Yes, I am,” said Wessner. “So would every man of the gang if they wasn't too big cowards to say anything, unless maybe that other slobbering old Scotchman, Duncan. Grinding the lives out of us! Working us like dogs, and paying us starvation wages, while he rolls up his millions and lives like a prince!”
Green lights began to play through the gray of Freckles' eyes.
“Wessner,” he said impressively, “you'd make a fine pattern for the father of liars! Every man on that gang is strong and hilthy, paid all he earns, and treated with the courtesy of a gentleman! As for the Boss living like a prince, he shares fare with you every day of your lives!”
Wessner was not a born diplomat, but he saw he was on the wrong tack, so he tried another.
“How would you like to make a good big pile of money, without even lifting your hand?” he asked.
“Humph!” said Freckles. “Have you been up to Chicago and cornered wheat, and are you offering me a friendly tip on the invistment of me fortune?”
Wessner came close.
“Freckles, old fellow,” he said, “if you let me give you a pointer, I can put you on to making a cool five hundred without stepping out of your tracks.”