“Don’t stop ’em!” cried Daly savagely, turning to Bobby. “Hand it to him, Biff. He’s a crook and an all-round sneak. He beat me out of this job by underhand means, and there ain’t a man in the place that ain’t tickled to death to see him get the beating that’s coming to him. Paste him, Biff!”
“Biff!” repeated Mr. Ripley, suddenly dropping his hands. “Biff who?”
“Mr. Biff Bates, the well-known and justly celebrated ex-champion middleweight,” announced Bobby with a grin. “Mr. Ripley—Mr. Bates.”
“Biff Bates!” repeated Con Ripley. “Why didn’t some of you guys tell me this was Biff Bates? Mr. Bates, I’m glad to meet you.” And with much respect he held forth his hand.
“Go chase yourself,” growled Mr. Bates, in infinite scorn.
Ripley replied with a sudden volley of abuse, couched in the vilest of language, but to this Biff made no reply. He dropped his hands in his coat pockets, and, considering his work done, walked over to the wall and leaned against it, awaiting further developments.
“Daly,” asked Bobby sharply, breaking in upon Ripley’s tirade, “are you competent to run this plant?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Daly. “I should have had the job four years ago. I was promised it.”
“You may consider yourself in charge, then. Mr. Ripley, if you will walk up to the office I’ll pay you off.”