"Y' won't. Why, Pete, it ought to be easiest job in world. A few dropsh in glass when you're talkin' business and he'd never know it happened. Then we 'beat it,' y'understand, 'n' write lettersh—nice lettersh. One of 'em to that swell daughter of his. That would do the business, pronto."
"Yes, it might," admitted Peter ruminatively.
"Sure it will—but we'll give him chance. Are y' on?" he asked.
Peter was silent for a moment. And then,
"I don't see why you want that paper of McGuire's," he said. "They're exactly alike, you say—both incriminating. And if you've got your paper handy——"
Peter paused but Kennedy was in the act of swallowing another glass of whisky and he didn't stop to answer the half-formulated query. He gave a gasp of satisfaction and then shrugged.
"No use, Pete," he said huskily. "I said I had paper and I have paper handy, but I've got to have McGuire's paper too. I ain't got money and spotless rep'tation like Mike McGuire but I don't want paper like that floatin' roun' universh with my name signed to it."
"I don't blame you," said Peter dryly.
Hawk Kennedy was talking thickly now and spilled the whisky in trying to pour out a new glassful.
"Goo' whisky this—goo' ole whisky, Pete. Goo' ole Peter. Say, you'll get pater, Peep—I mean Peter pape—Oh H—— Paper. You know."