"Well—I'm listening."
A shrewd look came into Kennedy's face—a narrowing of the eyelids, a drawing of the muscles at the mouth, as he searched Peter's face with a sharp glance.
"If you play me false, Pete, I'll have your heart's blood," he said.
Peter only laughed at him.
"I'm not easily scared. Save the melodrama for McGuire. If you can do without me—go ahead. Play your hand alone. Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know."
The bluff worked, for Kennedy relaxed at once.
"Oh, you're a cool hand. I reckon you think I need you or I wouldn't be here. Well, that's so. I do need you. And I'm goin' to tell you the truth—even if it gives away my hand."
"Suit yourself," said Peter, indifferently.
He watched his old "bunkie" pour out another drink of the whisky, and a definite plan of action took shape in his mind. If he could only get Kennedy drunk enough.... The whisky bottle was almost empty—so Peter got up, went to his cupboard and brought forth another one.
"Good old Pete!" said Hawk. "Seems like July the first didn't make much difference to you."