"A present from Mr. McGuire," Peter explained.
"Well, here's to his fat bank account. May it soon be ours." And he drank copiously. Peter filled his own glass but when the opportunity offered poured most of it into the slop-bowl just behind him.
"I'm goin' to tell you, Pete, about me and McGuire—about how we got that mine. It ain't a pretty story. I told you some of it but not the real part—nobody but Mike McGuire and I know that—and he wouldn't tell if it was the last thing he said on earth."
"Oh," said Peter, "something crooked, eh?"
Kennedy laid his bony fingers along Peter's arm while his voice sank to an impressive whisper.
"Crooked as Hell, Pete—crooked as Hell. You wouldn't think Mike McGuire was a murderer—would you?"
"A murderer——!"
Kennedy nodded. "We took that mine—stole it from the poor guy who had staked out his claim. Mike killed him——"
"You don't mean——?"
"Yes, sir. Killed him—stuck him in the ribs with a knife when he wasn't lookin'. What do you think of that?"